ECTIONS   from 

V 


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f  «vx       ,         -j,t~-~  •*-'3U 


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SELECTIONS 


FROM    THE 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS 


OF 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 


EDITED,    WITH   NOTES  AND  AN   INTRODUCTION 


BY 


ALPHONSO  G.  NEWCOMER 

Associate  Professor  of  English  in  the  Leland  Stanford 
Junior  University 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY   HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1899, 

HY 
HENRY   HOLT  &  CO. 


SRLB 
URU 


PREFACE. 

THESE  selections  do  not  profess  to  be  fairly 
representative  of  Lander's  prose.  The  aim  has 
been  to  include,  not  what  is  most  characteristic, 
but  what  is  most  interesting  and  instructive,  there- 
fore most  suitable  for  those  who  are  beginning 
their  studies  in  literature.  For  Landor  must  be 
approached  with  circumspection:  some  of  his  most 
characteristic  work,  delightful  indeed  as  the 
recreation  of  mature  and  meditative  years,  has  no 
place  here.  In  the  Introduction,  however,  an 
attempt  has  been  made  to  restore  the  balance. 
But  after  all,  and  making  the  largest  allowance  for 
personal  taste,  no  selection  can  differ  very  much 
from  Mr.  Colvin's.  The  fact  is  that  of  Landor's 
several  thousand  pages  of  prose,  that  which  can 
make  an  appeal  at  once  wide  and  deep  can  be 
gathered  into  the  compass  of  a  modest  volume. 
The  rest  is  like  the  vast  plains  of  the  Dakotas — 
fertile,  but  unpicturesque. 

For  the  reassurance  of  those  who  still  look  askance 
at  the  Imaginary  Conversations,  let  Mr.  Colvin's 
opinion  be  cited,  that  to  sound  perpetually  the 
praises  of  De  Quincey's  prose  is  to  call  away  atten- 
tion from  the  best  to  the  second  best — an  opinion 


IV  PREFACE. 

in  which  the  present  editor,  with  all  admiration  for 
De  Quincey,  entirely  concurs.  Not  that  Landor  is 
to  supplant,  but  only  to  supplement,  De  Quincey, 
Macaulay,  Scott,  and  the  rest,  in  a  judicious  course 
of  English  reading.  Such  a  course  must  often  be- 
gin with  the  second  best — at  least  it  must  begin 
where  interest  is  most  readily  engaged.  But  it 
must  not  be  allowed  to  degenerate  into  a  romantic 
debauch.  And  Lander's  prose,  one  thinks,  should 
afford  precisely  the  right  corrective,  doubly  needed 
at  a  time  when  the  classic  board  is  so  frugally 
spread. 

Such  speculations,  however,  do  not  settle  a 
question  like  this.  Matthew  Arnold  was  fond  of 
pointing  out  that  the  value  of  any  discipline  is  to 
be  measured  by  its  power  of  engaging  the  emotions 
and  thereby  exerting  an  influence  upon  the  sense 
for  conduct  and  the  sense  for  beauty.  By  this  test, 
applied  and  observed  in  the  classroom,  the  Imagi- 
nary Conversations  do  not  fail.  Perhaps  no  element 
in  literature  awakens  a  livelier  response  than  the 
dramatic,  and  in  these  dramatic  dialogues  the  stu- 
dent is  brought  face  to  face  with  matters  of 
enduring*  interest.  Humanity  in  its  manifold  as- 
pects, with  its  clashes  of  opinion,  its  impulses  to 
action,  its  gradations  of  character,  is  always  in  the 
foreground.  There  is  no  recital  of  facts  to  be 
committed  to  memory,  and  there  arc  few  flights 
of  rhetoric  to  invite  desultory  discussion  of 
words  and  sentences.  But  there  is  much  that 
will  demand  original  insight  and  call  forth 
the  highest  powers  of  interpretation,  whi'e  the 


PREFACE.  v 

style  in  its  absolute  purity  teaches  silently  its  own 
lesson. 

The  text  of  this  edition  is  Mr.  Crump's  with 
corrections  of  manifest  errors,  which  text  is  in 
turn  Mr.  Forster's  with  corrections  and  conven- 
tionalized spelling  and  punctuation. 

A.  G.  N. 

STANFORD  UNIVERSITY,  CAL. 
April,  1899. 


CONTENTS. 


INTRODUCTION: 

Lander's  Position ix 

Life x 

Character, xvi 

Work xxi 

Poetry, xxii 

Prose xxiii 

Conversations,      .......  xxvi 

Philosophic,            ......  xxix 

Dramatic, xxxv 

Political,          .......  xxxix 

Critical, xlii 

Style, xliv 

Achievement,        .......  xlix 

CHRONOLOGY, Iv 

BlIlLIOGRAPHY, Ivi 

SELECTIONS: 

(t  ^Esop  and  Rhodope i 

u- Marcellus  and  Hannibal, 15 

Scipio,  Polybius,  Pansetius,          ....  21 

Metellus  and  Marius, 26 

^Lucullus  and  Ciesar 32 

Tiberius  and  Vipsania 47 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

PACK 

SELECTIONS: 

Wolfgang  and  Henry  of  Melctal,        ...  52 

*]  Southey  and  Landor.            .....  59 

^  Andrew  Marvel  and  Bishop  Parker,           .        .  72 

3  Essex  and  Spenser, 89 

;iThe  Lady  Lisle  and  Elizabeth  Gaunt,        .         .  96 

I  The  Empress  Catharine  and  Princess  Dashkof,  101 

Leofric  and  Godiva,      .         .        .         .        .        .  in 

Vittoria  Colonna  and  Michel- Angelo  Buonarroti,  1 1 9 

General  Kleber  and  French  Officers,          .         .  125 

Blucher  and  Sandt, 131 

Selected  Passages 137 

NOTES, 149 


INTRODUCTION. 

IT  can  be  no  error  of  prejudgment  to  say  that 
Landor  has  taken  very  nearly  his  final  station 
among  English  men  of  letters.  If  that  station  is 
not  in  the  circle  of  the  consecrated  it  is  yet  very 
high  among  the  elect,  among  those  whose  aims 
and  achievements  alike  set  them  safely  above  the 
ranks  of  the  merely  great.  Landor  needs  no 
apologist  to-day.  It  may  be  that  his  title  to  fame 
has  never  been  seriously  questioned.  But  between 
immoderate  self-praise  and  uncritical  disparage- 
ment the  title  has  sometimes  been  obscured.  For 
this  man  had  the  insolence  of  genius  as  scarcely 
another  since  Pindar,  and  there  have  been  not  a 
few,  from  Byron  down,  who  have  derided  that  inso- 
lence unmercifully.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  not 
strange  that  some,  under  the  spell  of  a  personality 
so  commanding  and  a  voice  so  manifestly  inspired, 
should  set  no  bounds  to  their  eulogy.  But  there 
have  always  been  sober  minds  that  knew  how  to 
steer  the  middle  course.  And  the  sober  minds  are 
now  all  that  are  left. 

Still,  the  uniqueness  of  his  position  makes  the 
task  of  criticism  delicate  and  difficult.  We  can- 
not regard  him  as  the  prophet  of  any  age,  least  of 
all  his  own.  Neither  a  leader  nor  a  disciple,  he 
stands  quite  apart,  and  wherever  the  circle  of  his 


X  INTRODUCTION. 

horizon  may  lie,  ours  can  only  intersect  it, — the  two 
will  never  coincide.  We  cannot  apply  to  him  the 
larger  criticism  of  relations  and  movements,  of 
which  indeed  he  himself  knew  nothing.  We  escape 
one  task,  hut  the  standards  of  comparison  which 
facilitate  and  validate  judgment  escape  us,  leaving 
us  to  measure  him  by  himself  alone.  And  he 
would  have  wished  it  so.  We  know  that  the  critic 
who  isolates  his  subject  cuts  his  own  clews.  It  is 
what  Landor  did  when  he  ventured  upon  criticism. 
But  when  Landor  becomes  our  subject,  we  have 
the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  he  isolated  himself. 
We  can  accept  the  responsibility  and  evade  the 
reproach. 

At  the  worst  we  can  fall  back  upon  appreciation 
and  feel  that  when  that  is  duly  accorded  our  task 
is  done.  There  is  not  much  to  expound.  Not  that 
Landor  never  preaches;  he  does  so,  quite  too  often 
for  the  reader's  peace  of  mind,  and  he  doubtless  in- 
tended some  portions  of  his  work  to  be  distinctly 
doctrinal.  Only,  we  know  better  than  to  look  for  con- 
sistent doctrine  from  one  whose  logic  was  little  more 
than  predilection.  It  would  not  be  the  part  of  wis- 
dom then  to  dissect  for  truth.  Vet  truth  has  a  way 
of  slipping  out  between  inconsistencies,  and  the 
debt  of  gratitude  may  as  well  be  acknowledged. 
Nor  is  truth  the  whole.  In  the  presence  of  so  con- 
summate an  art  and  so  strong  and  individual  an 
artist,  the  most  casual  appraiser  may  not  make 
light  of  his  task. 

Walter  Savage  Landor  was  born  in  January,  1775, 


INTRODUCTION.  XI 

and  died  in  the  autumn  of  1864.  The  octogenarians 
of  our  literature,  from  Gower  to  Tennyson,  we  can 
almost  count  on  our  fingers.  Nonagenarians  were 
Izaak  Walton,  Thomas  Hobbes,  and  Samuel  Rogers. 
Landor  came  within  four  months  of  being  named 
with  the  latter.  We  are  not  used  to  dealing  with 
nonagenarians.  To  read  of  a  man  who  died  no 
longer  ago  than  the  close  of  our  Civil  War  seeking 
for  a  publisher  back  in  1823  when  Byron  was  setting 
forth  on  his  fatal  expedition  to  Greece,  and  then 
to  be  told  that  this  man  was  nearly  fifty  years  old 
at  the  time  of  the  search  puts  us  strangely  out  of 
our  reckoning.  The  right  perspective  of  life  eludes 
us.  Was  this  a  young  man  seeking  a  publisher,  or 
an  old  one?  And  who  were  his  contemporaries? 
Macaulay?  But  Landor  had  published  poetry  and 
might  have  been  accounted  famous  before  Macaulay 
was  born.  Coleridge,  then?  But  the  young  poet 
Swinburne  went  to  Florence  to  receive  the  old 
poet's  blessing  half  a  life-time  after  Coleridge's 
death.  Living  to  become  the  debtor  for  more  than 
kindness  of  the  Brownings  in  Italy,  and  the  guest 
of  the  sculptor-poet  Story,  whose  death  was  but 
recently  recorded,  he  was  yet,  in  his  youth,  with 
some  disparity  of  years  it  is  true,  the  friend  of 
that  Dr.  Parr  who  could  give  vehement  stamp  for 
stamp  in  a  heated  argument  with  Dr.  Johnson.  He 
barely  missed  seeing  Goldsmith.  Time  and  dis- 
tance dwindle  as  we  look  back  through  the  over- 
lapping lives  of  Landor,  Johnson,  Swift,  Milton, 
Shakespeare. 

It  was  a  matter  of  some  pride  to  him  that  he  too 


Xll  INTRODUCTION, 

"drank  of  Avon,  a  dangerous  draught."  For  he 
was  born  in  the  ancient  town  of  Warwick,  in 
Warwickshire,  about  eight  miles  above  the  spot 
that  is  linked  forever  with  Shakespeare's  name. 
Becoming,  like  his  famous  countryman,  a  poet 
and  a  dramatist,  he  exercised  like  him  the  poet's 
right  to  send  his  fancy  roaming  through  forests 
of  Arden  that  are  doubtfully  bounded  by  English 
shires.  Yet  we  like  to  see,  or  to  imagine  we 
see,  behind  the  love  of  trees  and  flowers  that 
so  pervades  the  man's  written  words  something 
of  the  Warwickshire  the  child  knew,  the  willow- 
hung  banks  of  the  placid  Avon,  the  majestic  elms 
and  chestnut-woods,  and  the  tall,  luxuriant  green 
hedge-rows  stretching  mile  upon  mile. 

The  life  of  the  child,  however,  was  hardly  idyllic. 
The  eldest  son  of  well-conditioned  parents,  his 
education  and  the  nature  of  it  were  foregone  con- 
clusions. At  the  age  of  four  and  a  half  he  was 
sent  away  to  school.  Even  upon  the  hardiest 
nature  such  early  orphanage  must  work  lasting 
injury,  stunting  the  tender  growths  of  sympathy, 
substituting  for  the  restraints  of  love  the  restraints 
of  authority,  and  leaving  unlearned  the  joys  of 
obedience  and  self-denial.  There  is  at  least  some 
excuse  for  the  perverse  and  haughty  temper  with 
which  Landor  grew  up  to  manhood. 

The  records  of  his  youth  are  not  abundant.  Mr. 
Forster,  the  friend  of  his  latter  years  and  his 
authori/ed  biographer,  did  not  meet  him  till  he 
had  passed  sixty,  when  imagination  was  already  be- 
ginning to  make  myths  of  reminiscences  and  remi- 


INTRODUCTION.  X11I 

niscences  of  myths.  Of  course  his  education  was 
classical,  of  the  old  type  so  hard  now  to  regard 
approvingly  and  yet  productive  of  such  wonderful 
results.  Looked  at  through  the  recollections  of  its 
martyrs,  it  would  seem  to  have  been  one  endless 
task  of  writing  Latin  verses.  And  that  accom- 
plishment, genuine  enough  in  Landor's  case,  for  he 
is  one  of  the  very  few  who  have  succeeded  in  writ- 
ing real  poetry  in  a  dead  language,  is  in  itself  a 
barren  thing.  Yet  when  we  read  his  Hellenics  and 
hear 

through  the  trumpet  of  a  child  of  Rome 
Ring  the  pure  music  of  the  flutes  of  Greece, 

or  when  we  learn  from  Mrs.  Browning  how  he 
talked  with  her  till  "  the  ashes  of  antiquity  burned 
again"  in  his  hands,  we  are  readier  to  listen  with 
patience  to  the  tales  of  how  once  the  excellence  of 
his  Latin  verses  won  for  his  schoolfellows  a  holiday, 
or  how  his  later  dismissal  from  Rugby  was  the  re- 
sult of  his  declining  to  correct  the  quantity  of  a 
Latin  syllable  when  indeed  no  correction  could  be 
made. 

After  Rugby  came  a  year  and  a  half  at  Oxford. 
But  a  foolish  prank  and  a  more  foolish  denial  of 
guilt  made  his  further  stay  there  impossible,  and,  not 
yet  twenty,  he  went  to  face  the  world  in  London. 
The  trite  remark  that  well-learned  lessons  of  hu- 
mility and  self-mastery  are  a  better  equipment  for 
life  than  any  inheritance  of  wealth  or  influence 
has  seldom  been  so  well  illustrated.  It  is  im- 
possible to  say  that  Landor  succeeded  in  life. 


XIV  INTRODUCTION. 

His  maintenance  and  social  position  were  suffi- 
ciently secure  from  the  first,  though  of  course 
through  no  efforts  of  his  own.  His  splendid  intellect- 
ual and  imaginative  endowment  made  possible  the  lit- 
erary achievements  which  establish  his  fame.  But 
in  prudence,  tact,  and  all  those  delicate  social  ad- 
justments and  compromises  that  make  for  indi- 
vidual and  collective  happiness,  his  history  presents 
a  long  series  of  failures,  and  he  pathetically  ad- 
mitted as  much  in  his  old  age.  The  details  of  his 
successive  quarrels— with  his  father,  his  neighbors, 
his  publishers,  with  civil  authorities — need  not  be 
repeated  here.  The  quarrels  themselves  are  of  no 
interest — many  men  before  and  since  have  quarreled; 
but  where  is  the  man  who  could  solace  himself 
afterward  as  this  man  did,  by  writing  a  lyric  or  a 
tragedy,  or,  should  the  whim  so  dictate,  a  Latin 
poem  on  the  death  of  Ulysses? — betokening  beneath 
the  tempestuous  surface  what  unsounded  depths  of 
calm! 

He  fell  into  the  life  that  seemed  ordained,  the 
life  of  a  man  of  letters  and  leisure,  varied  chiefly 
by  his  frequent  changes  of  residence  and  friends. 
One  or  two  episodes  stand  out.  In  1808,  when  all 
England  was  stirred  by  Napoleon's  aggressive  de- 
signs upon  Spain,  he  impulsively  rushed  off  to  Co- 
runna  and  devoted  to  the  cause  of  the  rising  Span- 
iards ten  thousand  reals  and  his  personal  services 
for  three  months  at  the  head  of  a  troop  enrolled 
at  his  expense.  That  the  enterprise  came  to 
little  beyond  an  honorarv  colonel's  commission 
which  some  years  later,  in  a  fit  of  indignation,  was 


INTRODUCTION.  XV 

sent  back  to  the  restored  King  Ferdinand,  cannot 
detract  from  the  magnanimity  of  the  spirit  that 
prompted  it.  And  poetry  is  the  richer  for  it  by  the 
tragedy  of  Count  Julian. 

The  same  impulsiveness  is  revealed  in  the 
rather  melodramatic  story  of  his  courtship.  "By 
Heaven  !  "  he  exclaimed,  as,  entering  a  ballroom  at 
Bath,  he  was  smitten  with  the  vision  of  a  pretty 
face  encircled  with  curls,  "  that's  the  nicest  girl  in 
the  room,  and  I'll  marry  her."  And  within  six 
weeks  he  made  good  his  boast.  The  marriage  was 
not  a  happy  one.  After  twenty-four  years  of  grow- 
ing estrangement  came  a  final  separation.  One 
might  safely  have  prophesied  as  much  of  the  man 
who  could  write  Latin  Alcaics  against  the  Ministry 
during  his  honeymoon  and  inclose  the  verses,  along 
with  the  announcement  of  his  marriage,  to  his  old 
Whig  friend  Parr.  Still,  it  is  only  fair  to  add  that 
Mrs.  Landor  once  interrupted  his  reading  of  his 
own  verses  to  watch  a  Punch  performing  on  the 
street. 

Apart  from  several  years  spent  in  South  Wales, 
and  at  Llanthony  Abbey  in  Monmouthshire,  his 
English  residence  was  chiefly  at  Bath.  Twice  he 
fled  from  unpleasantnesses  of  one  kind  or  another 
to  Italy,  the  retreat  of  so  many  English  men  of 
letters,  where  doubtless  he  consoled  himself  as  he 
fancied  Boccaccio  consoled  Petrarch:  "There  is, 
and  ever  will  be,  in  all  countries  and  under  all 
governments,  an  ostracism  for  their  greatest  men." 
"  Such  men,"  writes  Cleoneto  Aspasia,  thinking  how 
Pindar  and  /Eschylus  had  exchanged  Greece  for 


xvi  INTRODUCTION. 

Sicily,  "are  under  no  dominion  .  .  .  We  will  reproach 
them  for  emigration,  when  we  reproach  a  man  for 
lying  clown  in  his  neighbor's  field,  because  the 
grass  is  softer  in  it  than  in  his  own."  Besides, 
Florence  had  driven  forth  Dante  and  Petrarch  in 
the  past — in  all  humility  now  she  might  receive 
Landor.  And  at  Florence  and  the  neighboring 
town  of  Fiesole  he  spent  many  of  his  most  peaceful 
and  prolific  years,  weaving  and  wearing  proudly  his 
"exotic  laurel."  Thither  admirers  came  from 
time  to  time  to  pay  their  tributes,  and  there  he 
found  one  or  two  friends  to  solace  his  lonely  age. 
There  too,  after  nearly  ninety  years  of  tumultuous 
life,  came  death,  likewise  a  friend.  And  there,  in 
the  English  churchyard  not  far  from  the  grave  of 
Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  whither  she  had  pre- 
ceded him  by  three  years,  he  sleeps  to-day. 

These  bare  biographical  facts  but  faintly  re- 
veal the  character  behind  them.  It  is  a  char- 
acter not  easily  understood,  a  strange  combination 
of  fierceness  and  tenderness,  of  restless  energy 
and  proud  reserve.  Perhaps  few  men  have  suc- 
ceeded in  uniting,  in  the  same  degree  as  Landor, 
the  active  and  the  contemplative  life.  It  was  a 
characteristic  picture  which  he  drew  of  himself  at 
Llanthony  Abbey,  employing  his  mornings  in 
cutting  off  the  heads  of  the  thistles  with  his  stick 
and  musing  among  the  beautiful  and  peaceful  tribes 
of  the  flowers.  Characteristic,  too,  though  perhaps 
apocryphal,  is  the  story  which  Kmcrson  and  others 
have  repeated  after  Milncs,  that  he  once  threw  his 


INTRODUCTION.  XVll 

cook  out  of  the  window  into  a  flower-bed,  to  exclaim 
in  immediate  remorse,  "  Good  God!  I  forgot  the 
violets."  It  was  this  nature  that  enabled  him  in  boy- 
hood to  excel  alike  in  boxing  and  in  Latin,  and  in 
manhood  to  produce  through  seventy  turbulent  years 
a  body  of  poetry  and  prose  that  for  sustained 
serenity  stands  quite  without  an  equal. 

Those  who  knew  him  well  often  likened  him  to  a 
lion,  and  we  imagine  the  comparison  was  singularly 
apt.  The  upright  bearing,  the  proud  poise  of  the 
massive,  firm-set  head,  the  ruddy,  prominent  face, 
with  lifted  eyebrows,  large  keen  gray  eyes,  and 
compressed  lips  drooping  at  the  corners,  the  oft- 
clenched  hands,  the  full  rich  voice,  and  the  resonant 
crescendo  laughter,  were  no  less  than  leonine. 
The  external  features  are  compatible  too  with 
what  we  know  of  the  inner  nature — the  vitality  of 
spirit  that  conquered  one  generation  after  another 
of  fearful  but  fascinated  admirers,  and  the  vigor  of 
intellect  that,  beyond  eighty  years,  compelled  Car- 
lyle's  half-incredulous  cry,  "The  unsubduable  old 
Roman!  "  But  the  lion  slept  sometimes,  and  the 
Roman  sheathed  his  sword.  "I  found  him  noble 
and  courteous,"  wrote  Emerson  of  him  in  1833, 
"  living  in  a  cloud  of  pictures  at  his  villa  Gherar- 
descha  ...  I  had  inferred  from  his  books,  or 
magnified  from  some  anecdotes,  an  impression  of 
Achillean  wrath,  ...  an  untamable  petulance,  .  .  . 
but  certainly  on  this  May  day  his  courtesy  veiled 
that  haughty  mind,  and  he  was  the  most  patient 
and  gentle  of  hosts."  "  Chivalresque  of  the  old 
school"  is  Mr.  Kirkup's  phrase;  and  Miss  Kate 


XVI 11  INTRODUCTION. 

Field  relates  how,  as  she  one  day  picked  up  his 
glasses  which  he  had  accidentally  dropped,  he  re- 
sponded with  instant  wit  and  indescribable  grace, 
"  Ah,  this  is  not  the  first  time  you  have  caught  my 
eyes." 

One  would  like  to  dwell  upon  the  benignant  side 
of  his  character.  He  took  delight  in  the  society  of 
dogs  and  children,  of  beautiful  girls  and  old  men. 
He  was  fond  of  music,  though  perhaps  chiefly  for 
its  associations — "Alas,  how  very  few  things  are 
worth  an  old  song?  "  His  love  of  flowers  amounted 
to  a  passion,  but  he  liked  to  see  the  shaping  hand 
of  the  artist  among  them,  to  find  them  in  old,  orderly 
gardens.  He  imported  for  planting  thousands  of 
cones  of  the  cedars  of  Lebanon,  as  if  old  associa- 
tions might  be  transplanted  too.  America,  as  the 
home  of  Washington  and  freedom,  was  attractive 
to  his  intellect,  but  it  is  doubtful  whether  the  virgin 
wilderness  could  have  held  his  heart.  He  preferred 
Italy  with  her  history,  her  pictures,  her  cathedrals 
and  saints.  He  was  something  of  an  Epicure 
after  the  old  ideal — an  ideal  which  embraced 
not  a  little  that  is  Stoic.  He  was  personally 
fastidious  in  the  extreme,  kept  religiously  from 
public  dinners,  preferring  to  dine  alone  in  subdued 
light,  cultivated  the  pleasures  of  the  senses  through 
abstemiousness,  and  by  judicious  alternation  of 
physical  activity  with  seasons  of  meditation  and 
repose  made  life  yield  its  richest  enjoyments  and 
turned  age  itself  into  a  benign  and  mellowing  in- 
fluence. 

l.ut  the   melancholy   record  of  his  social  failure 


INTRODUCTION.  XIX 

remains.  His  impetuous  temper,  his  crotchets,  his 
prejudices,  his  unconquerable  hatreds — of  kings, 
priests,  Frenchmen — set  him  almost  hopelessly  out  of 
the  society  of  his  compeers.  Modesty  and  humility 
were  never  among  his  virtues.  Of  his  personal  and 
intellectual  gifts  he  had  reason  to  be  proud.  But 
reasonableness  and  consistency  were  also  not  among 
his  virtues.  He  knew  the  supreme  worth  of  in- 
tellect and  culture,  he  was  a  Whig  and  a  republi- 
can, he  professed  to  despise  rank,  and  yet,  like 
De  Quincey,  though  apparently  with  even  less 
warrant  than  De  Quincey,  he  clung  to  the  tradition 
of  a  patrician  descent  and  would  have  fought  to 
defend  the  memory  of  Sir  Arnold  Savage,  a  doubt- 
ful ancestor  whose  name  he  bore.  At  school  he 
never  competed  for  a  prize,  and  the  reason  is  to  be 
found  in  the  first  line  of  that  quatrain  which  has 
become  classic —  vi«..  <»*•* 

I  strove  with  none,  for  none  was  worth  my  strife. 

And  we  read  the  same  pride,  unbroken  still  though 
tempered  with  pathos,  in  those  other  lines  of  his 
old  age  in  which  he  bewails  the  fate  that  made 
him  outlive  his  friends — 

Who  had  so  many — I  could  once  count  three. 

Such  an  untamed,  undisciplined,  but  august  bar- 
barian he  remained  to  the  end.  With  all  his  years, 
his  boasted  philosophy,  his  familiar  intercourse 
with  the  wise  men  of  antiquity,  he  cannot  be  said 
to  have  attained  the  philosophic  mind.  He  was  a 
man  of  splendid  gifts  who  chose  to  be  satisfied  with 


XX  INTRODUCTION. 

those  gifts  as  he  found  them.  He  never  thought  of 
learning  from  another  how  he  might  improve  them 
— perhaps  he  never  had  a  suspicion  that  they  could 
be  improved.  It  was  enough  to  feel  that  Nature 
and  Heaven  had  nobly  dowered  him.  "  I  am  not 
inobservant  of  distinctions,"  he  closes  proudly  a 
letter  written  in  his  dotage  to  the  English  ambassa- 
dor at  Florence, — "You  by  the  favor  of  a  minister 
are  the  Marquis  of  Normanby,  I  by  the  grace  of 
God  am  WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR." 

It  was  these  things  that  proved  so  irritating  to 
all  whose  tolerance  could  not  be  extended  to  an- 
other's intolerance.  It  was  these  things,  too, 
coupled  with  a  natural  exclusiveness  of  spirit,  that 
resulted  in  that  lifelong  semi-isolation  which, 
while  picturesque  in  its  way,  worked  disastrously 
upon  the  man's  whole  moral  and  artistic  product, 
distorting  its  perspective,  chilling  its  fervor,  and 
sapping  its  humanity.  But  the  pride  was  so  fear- 
lessly paraded,  the  isolation  so  heroically  endured, 
that  in  the  eyes  of  us  who  look  from  a  safe  distance 
and  through  the  tranquilizing  medium  of  years  the 
personality  suffers  but  little.  We  yield  to  the  fas- 
cination of  the  picture  and  turn  from  censure  to 
admiration.  After  all,  wrongheadedness  is  more 
tolerable  than  thickheadedness.  He  who  errs 
through  pride  or  passion  may  rouse  our  anger- 
he  does  not  call  down  our  contempt.  We  never 
pity  him,  which  is  very  much  to  his  advantage  in 
the  end.  He  has  his  foibles,  we  say,  but,  as  Landor 
himself  so  tersely  put  it,  fie  lias  //is  foibles  is  never 
said  of  a  weak  man.  "  Circa t  men,"  admits  Dioge- 


IN  TROD  UC  TION.  x  xi 

nes  in  the  conversation  between  him  and  Plato, 
"too  often  have  greater  faults  than  little  men  ca.n 
find  room  for."  This  great  man  had  very  many; 
but  they  are  buried  with  him,  while  the  great 
accomplishment  stands. 

And  it  will  stand.  There  is  little  literary  work 
of  the  present  century  of  which  one  can  speak  with 
more  confidence  than  of  Landor's.  For  there  is 
little  work  that  rises  so  clear  of  its  age  and  environ- 
ment or  is  less  exposed  to  the  fallacy  of  personal 
and  temporal  estimates.  He  did  not  need  to  write 
for  money;  he  was  not  oppressed  with  the  burden 
of  a  message  to  be  delivered  to  men.  Fortune 
placed  him  far  above  the  pack  of  hungry  reviewers; 
temperament  delivered  him  from  the  nightmare  of 
social  reform.  Sometimes  indignation  made  his 
verses.  Sometimes,  perhaps  too  often,  as  we  have 
seen,  he  felt  moved  to  speak  out  for  the  needs  of 
the  time  as  he  conceived  them,  and  he  condescended 
to  homily.  But  the  Landor  who  will  live  for  us  is 
the  Landor  who  took  refuge  from  the  clamor  and 
confusion  of  a  restless  age  amid  the  eternal  verities 
of  the  human  spirit  and  wrought  their  substance  to 
the  beauty  of  his  art.  And  he  wrought  unmoved 
by  base  motives  of  profit  or  praise.  He  declared 
that  he  neither  bid  nor  cared  for  any  man's  praise. 
If  the  profession  of  indifference  ring  not  wholly 
sincere,  if  beneath  his  too  boisterous  contempt  of 
the  suffrages  of  the  crowd  we  read  a  secret 
chafing  over  its  neglect,  something  may  be  con- 
ceded to  the  hunger  of  human  nature  for  rec- 


xxii  INTRODUCTION. 

ognition  and  reward.  The  Homer  of  his  Idyls 
confesses  to 

A  pardonable  fault  :  we  wish  for  listeners 
Whether  we  speak  or  sing  :  the  young  and  old 
Alike  are  weak  in  this,  wise  and  unwise. 

But  the  certainty  remains  that  Landor  never  abated 
one  jot  of  his  high  ideals  to  conciliate  any  form  of 
homage. 

The  high  ideals  must  be  conceded.  If  literature 
did  not  grow  out  of  the  stress  of  his  real  life,  it  had 
yet  his  entire  adoration.  He  worked  with  undisguised 
reverence  for  the  work  of  his  hands,  and  the  stamp 
of  the  consecrated  artist  is  on  all  he  did.  His 
poetry  perhaps  reflects  this  quality  best.  Before 
his  twenty-third  year,  when  the  passion  and  exuber- 
ance of  youth  should  be  at  their  height,  he  wrote, 
in  blank  verse,  and  only  by  the  merest  chance  in 
English  instead  of  Latin,  his  heroic  poem  Gcbir,  on 
the  theme  of  ambition,  a  marvel  of  concentration, 
classic  finish,  and  lofty  and  chaste  imagery.  He 
claimed  no  lesser  poets  than  Pindar  and  Milton  for 
his  masters.  Such  work  was  not  for  the  multitude. 
It  was  not  fervid  and  romantic  enough,  not  suffi- 
ciently charged  with  emotion,  color,  and  sound. 
And  so  with  everything  that  followed.  Apart  from 
several  particularly  striking  or  felicitous  lines  and 
passages  of  a  character  to  be  described  below,  his 
poetry  has  remained  a  sealed  book  to  all  but  the 
few  who  are  fitted  by  temperament  and  cultivation 
to  appreciate  it.  His  one  considerable  drama,  the 
tragedy  of  Count  Julian,  is  carved  as  out  of 


INTRODUCTION.  XXlll 

marble,  with  scarcely  more  human  warmth  or 
charm.  Perhaps  his  peculiar  poetic  genius  found 
its  best  expression  in  the  severe  Hellenics  of  his  ma- 
ture years. 

Yet  we  must  not  overlook  the  countless  fugitive 
little  lyrics  and  epigrams  that  were  produced,  some- 
times almost  improvised,  amid  sterner  labors,  and 
that  fairly  rival  in  playful  wit,  tenderness,  and 
pathos  the  works  of  the  world's  masters  of  personal 
and  amatory  verse  from  Anacreon  and  Catullus  to 
Andre"  Chenier.  Literature  has  nothing  more  ex- 
quisite and  few  things  more  rememberable  than 
the  eight  lines  in  which  the  memory  of  Rose  Ayl- 
mer  is  enshrined.  Indeed,  of  Landor's  poetry  in 
general,  epic,  dramatic,  or  lyric,  while  it  must  be 
admitted  that  it  misses  the  qualities  of  supreme 
greatness,  it  must  also  be  said  that  it  maintains  a 
high  level  of  excellence,  and  that  some  of  it  fairly 
attains  perfection  in  its  kind.  To  a  passage  like 
The  Death  of  Artemidoray  first  printed  in  Pericles 
and  Aspasia,  it  is  idle  to  bring  the  scales. 

Between  Landor's  poetry  and  his  prose  one 
hesitates  to  adjudge  precedence.  He  bore  the  al- 
most unique  distinction  of  writing  in  the  two  modes 
with  equal  ease.  No  doubt  his  fame  rests  chiefly 
on  his  prose.  Though  narrower  in  range,  it  is  larger 
in  bulk,  about  as  four  to  one,  and  this  disparity, 
from  so  quintessential  a  pen,  is  real.  Prose  should 
prove  a  more  native  element,  one  thinks,  to  him 
who  believed  in  a  "gentle  and  regular  and  long 
fermentation  "  before  composition.  In  prose,  too, 
the  touchstones  are  fewer,  for  the  masters  are  few. 


XXIV  INTRODUCTION. 

and  Landor  takes  his  seat  among  them  without 
dispute.  The  Pericles  and  Aspasia  is  one  of  those 
final  achievements  which  criticism  cannot  touch. 
The  surprise  is  that  such  pure  imagination  and 
flawless  art  should  find  an  adequate  medium  in 
prose.  We  are  taught  a  new  reverence  for  this 
humble  servant  of  our  daily  thoughts. 

Three  of  these  prose  compositions  rose  to  the  dig- 
nity of  "  works."  The  Citation  and  Examination  of 
William  Shakespeare  was  the  first  and  the  least.  The 
idea  of  portraying  this  universal  genius  in  his  imma- 
turity, and  under  a  disgrace  with  which  Landor  was 
quite  too  prone  to  sympathize,  was  audacious  enough. 
But  the  execution  failed.  The  piece  gains  less  than 
might  havebeen  expected  from  the  author's  personal 
knowledge  of  the  scene  of  the  traditional  deer- 
stealing,  and  it  loses  immeasurably  by  its  theolo- 
gizing and  its  heavy  attempts  at  Elizabethan 
dialect  and  country-wit.  Pericles  and  Aspasia, 
which  followed,  has  already  been  mentioned.  It 
is  in  the  form  of  an  epistolary  correspondence 
throughout,  and  aims  to  restore  to  the  imagin- 
ation with  some  detail  the  golden  age  of  Greece. 
It  may  not  be  the  real  Greek  life  that  we  get  in 
its  pages — we  cannot  know;  but  no  true  lover  of 
that  vanished  vision  will  have  it  otherwise.  Be- 
yond the  possibility  of  exaggeration  at  least  the 
ancient  glory  must  have  been,  to  light  up  such  reflec- 
tions after  two  thousand  years.  It  is  something  of  a 
descent  to  the  Pentameron,  which  came  last.  But 
here,  too,  Landor  is  a  loving  restorer  of  the  antique. 
Boccaccio  converses  with  Petrarch  until  mediaeval 


INTRODUCTION.  XXV 

Tuscany  lives  again.  The  appraisement  of  Dante  by 
the  lesser  poet,  whether  we  name  him  Petrarch  or 
Landor,  is  narrow  and  disappointing,  yet  redeemed 
by  some  things  that  must  surely  compel  the  forgive- 
ness of  the  great  Florentine's  most  jealous  admirers. 
Landor  began  his  writings  in  prose,  however, 
with  the  work  which  is  still  most  closely  linked 
with  his  memory,  namely,  those  Imaginary  Conversa- 
tions that  he  poured  so  copiously  through  the  press 
between  1824  and  1829  and  fitfully  to  the  very  end. 
It  was  these  that  first  wrung  from  the  general 
public  a  chary  applause  and  firmly  established  the 
name  of  the  author,  who  was  then  already  fifty 
years  old.  His  longer  prose  pieces  described 
above  followed  most  of  them  in  time,  and,  as  we 
have  seen,  conformed  to  them  in  method  with  only 
a  slight  variation  in  the  case  of  Pericles  and  Aspasia. 
This  method,  which  constitutes  his  sole  prose 
method  (though  still  with  no  narrow  range),  was 
virtually  a  new  one.  The  dialogue  as  a  literary 
form  is  as  old  as  Plato,  indeed  as  old  as  the  drama 
or  the  epic,  but  the  imaginary  conversation  between 
great  men  or  women  of  the  past  was  impossible  at 
an  early  stage  of  history,  and  nothing  of  the  kind 
before  Landor's,  and  scarcely  anything  since,  has 
met  with  any  measure  of  success.  In  the  face  of 
Landor's  success  it  seems  foolish  to  hint  that  his 
choice  of  method  was  not  wholly  wise.  But  few 
things  that  he  did  were  wholly  wise.  His  parsimony 
of  phrase,  his  weak  narrative  talent,  his  gift  for 
description,  his  proneness  to  moralize,  might  well 
have  argued  failure  in  so  essentially  dramatic  a 


XXVI  INTRODUCTION. 

thing  as  the  ideal  dialogue.  And  from  the  dramatic 
standpoint  he  does  often  fail.  But  again  he 
succeeds  by  virtue  of  powers  that  overrode  his 
weaknesses.  Supreme  among  these  was  the  poet's 
gift  of  imagination.  The  vision  of  past  ages  was 
on  his  eyes,  the  voices  of  great  men  were  in  his 
ears — of  heroes,  priests,  poets,  sages,  kings.  Even 
when  the  great  voices  fail  we  have  always  one  to 
replace  them — Landor's  own.  Sometimes  the  sub- 
stitution strikes  harsh  or  thin,  but  not  often.  The 
poet  seldom  fails  to  rise  to  the  level  of  whatever 
greatness. 

It  is  worth  while  to  examine  more  closely  the 
method  of  these  conversations,  "  so  delightful  to 
read  in,  so  hard  to  read  through,"  and  containing, 
if  we  may  trust  Landor's  own  estimate,  a  body  of 
prose  unequaled  by  a  single  author  in  two  thousand 
years.  They  number  more  than  one  hundred  and 
fifty  and  vary  in  length  from  two  to  ten  or  even 
a  hundred  pages,  making  five  or  six  weighty 
volumes.  Of  this  extensive  and  diverse  material 
there  can  be  no  final  classification.  In  Mr. 
Forster's  edition  there  are  five  divisions:  Classical 
Dialogues  (Greek  and  Roman),  Dialogues  of 
Sovereigns  and  Statesmen,  of  Literary  Men,  of 
Famous  Women,  and  Miscellaneous  Dialogues. 
Mr.  Colvin,  considering  more  especially  the  nature 
of  their  contents,  would  separate  them  into 
Dramatic  on  the  one  hand  and  Reflective  and 
Discursive  on  the  other.  In  the  further  discussion 
of  them  here  they  will  be  considered  in  the  two 


INTRODUCTION.  XXV11 

major  divisions  of   Philosophic  and   Dramatic  and 
the  two  minor  ones  of  Political  and  Critical. 

The  method  of  construction  is  the  simplest  of 
dialogue  methods.  Two  characters,  or  sometimes 
more,  from  a  chosen  period  of  history  or  even 
from  the  writer's  own  circle  of  acquaintances  not 
excluding  himself,  are  brought  together  upon  any 
or  no  pretext  and  discourse  upon  whatever  subjects 
may  be  supposed  to  engage  their  interests.  The 
discourse  is  not  necessarily  consecutive.  In  the 
longer  dialogues,  the  speakers  range  freely  from 
politics  to  poetry,  from  cathedrals  to  kitchens. 
A  story  even  may  be  introduced,  though  seldom 
happily,  for  Landor's  tales  have  not  the  charm 
of  his  beloved  Boccaccio's.  Sometimes  there 
is  a  beautiful  or  majestic  background,  as  when 
Epicurus  walks  with  his  girl  pupils  in  his  garden, 
or  when  Sir  Philip  Sidney  invites  Greville  to  a  seat 
beneath  his  oak,  but  in  general  there  is  only  the 
barest  suggestion  of  scene,  and  the  characters 
stand  forth  as  nakedly  as  the  actors  on  an  ancient 
stage.  Stage  directions,  of  course,  are  not  required, 
though  hints  of  the  action,  as  of  the  background, 
are  sometimes  to  be  found  in  the  words  of  the  inter- 
locutors. The  hints  are  not  always  so  deftly  given 
as  to  conceal  their  dramatic  purpose,  but  life  and 
picturesqueness  are  gained;  as  when  Sergius  is 
made  to  say,  after  a  ribald  jest,  "Mahomet,  thou 
art  the  heartiest  laugher  under  heaven;  prythee 
let  thy  beard  cover  thy  throat  again  ";  or  as  when 
Princess  Mary  expostulates  with  Elizabeth,  "But 
why  call  me  HigJiness,  drawing  back  and  losing 


XXVlll  INTRODUCTION. 

half   your    stature    in    the    circumference    of    the 
courtesy." 

No  fact  needs  more  to  be  impressed  upon  one 
who  would  understand  these  conversations  than 
that  history  constitutes  for  them  only  a  point  of 
departure.  Landor's  ends  were  literary,  ethical, 
critical — anything  but  historical.  The  learning 
displayed  is  varied,  but  seldom  profound.  Pro- 
found insight  he  had,  but  profound  scholarship 
he  had  not.  He  did  not  build  so  much  upon  pa- 
tient investigation  as  upon  wide  reading  and  pro- 
longed reflection.  Many  of  the  dialogues  were 
composed  aloud  among  the  hills  of  Fiesole.  Books 
once  read  were  given  away,  and  he  cared  to  remem- 
ber them  only  well  enough  to  keep  from  repeating 
any  part  of  their  contents.  His  recollections  were 
overlaid  with  additions  of  his  imagination  until  there 
grew  up  a  second  history,  or  rather  mythology,  of 
his  own.  And  of  this  mythology  the  conversations 
were  made.  Of  course  he  generally  preserved  the 
historical  background,  and  he  did  not  disdain  occa- 
sional allusions  to  familiar  facts  or  traditions,  as 
when  we  find  Diogenes  chaffing  Plato  over  the 
affair  of  the  plucked  fowl,  or  Polycrates  pursued  by 
his  discarded  ring.  But,  jealously  guarding  his 
claim  to  the  title  of  poet,  of  creative  writer,  he 
adhered  rigidly  to  the  plan  of  using  no  phrases  his- 
torically recorded  of  his  personages.  An  anach- 
ronism, too,  was  only  a  license, — remember  the  sav- 
ing title  Imaginary, — and  gave  him  no  more  con- 
cern than  it  gave  Shakespeare.  "  Poetry  is  not 
tied  to  chronology,"  he  would  say  with  scorn.  And 


INTRODUCTION.  xxix 

so  Bacon  is  made  to  seek  consolation  of  Hooker, 
who  died  twenty  years  before  Bacon's  fall,  and 
Machiavelli  draws  a  lesson  from  the  defeat  of  the 
Spanish  Armada!  With  such  a  purpose  and  method 
it  was  inevitable  that  there  should  be  some  ideali- 
zation. We  may  never  assume  that  an  historical 
character  was  as  great  or  as  little  as  Landor  por- 
trays it.  Yet  an  idealized  portrait  is  sometimes 
truer  than  a  photograph.  It  gives  us  more  of  the 
man  than  externals  can  show — his  dreams  and 
aspirations  no  less  than  the  scars  on  his  cheek  or 
the  badges  on  his  coat.  In  a  spiritual  sense  a  man 
is  what  he  would  become  if  circumstances  per- 
mitted complete  self-realization.  The  poet's  trans- 
figured heroes  are  only  men  as  they  idealized 
themselves  to  themselves.  We  are  told  that  a 
friend  of  Lord  Dudley's,  reading  to  him  one  of 
these  Conversations,  exclaimed  upon  concluding, 
"  Is  not  that  exactly  what  Cicero  would  have  said?  " 
"Yes,  if  he  could!  "  was  Lord  Dudley's  answer. 

The  first  division  of  the  Conversations  which  we 
have  chosen  to  make  is  the  Philosophic.  After 
poet,  Landor  would  perhaps  have  called  him- 
self philosopher.  And,  though  his  abilities  did 
not  lie  in  the  direction  of  abstract  thinking, 
nnd  though  he  did  not  and  could  not  build  up 
A  coherent  system  of  philosophy,  his  ethical  pro- 
clivities and  his  faculty  for  "the  reflective  exhibi- 
tion of  certain  types  of  character  "  led  him  frequently 
to  bring  the  world's  great  philosophers  on  the  stage. 
His  professed  favorites  were  Epicurus  and  Epicte- 


XXX  INTRODUCTION. 

tus,  though  the  latter  appears  in  but  one  brief  dia- 
logue. Cicero  and  Bacon  he  also  admired.  His 
deep-seated  antipathy  to  Plato  is  one  of  the  anom- 
alies of  his  character.  Few  judgments  of  his 
upon  the  great  disciple  of  Socrates  and  teacher 
of  Aristotle, — whom  he  regards  as  an  unworthy  dis- 
ciple and  a  dangerous  teacher,  without  wisdom,  wit, 
or  imagination,  a  mere  quibbler  "  sticking  pins  in 
every  chair  on  which  a  sophist  is  likely  to  sit 
down," — are  worthy  of  serious  consideration.  But 
on  the  whole  we  can  gather  no  mean  account  of  the 
philosophers  and  philosophies  of  antiquity  from  his 
pages. 

From  the  standpoint  of  art,  the  philosophic  con- 
versations have  grave  defects.  There  is  too  much 
consciousness  in  the  manner  at  times,  a  suspicion  of 
fanfaronade — Landor  parading  his  wisdom  as,  in 
one  of  the  dialogues,  Lncullus  parades  his  wealth 
and  Epicurean  tastes.  There  is  the  lack  of  con- 
secutiveness,  too,  already  noted.  It  is  no  excuse  to 
say  that  actual  conversations  rarely  have  unity  of 
purpose:  an  ideal  conversation  should  have, — 
therein  lies  the  artist's  opportunity.  Digression 
there  may  be,  but  not  divagation.  When  Landor 
defended  his  practice,  we  may  suspect  that  he  was 
only  attempting  to  cover  a  defect. 

Hut  this  defect  becomes  still  more  conspicuous 
through  another  defect,  which  should  have  made 
unity  at  least  easy  to  secure.  For  often  there  is  no 
real  conversation  at  all,  only  a  monologue.  It  is  all 
give  and  no  take.  One  character  is  selected  to 
become  the  mouthpiece  of  certain  opinions,  while 


INTRODUCTION.  xxxi 

the  secondary  character  serves  merely  as  a  foil  or 
sometimes  even  as  a  target.  The  first  speaker 
declaims,  while  the  second  speaker's  sole  business 
is  to  give  the  cue  for  each  new  declamation.  Or  it 
may  be  that  the  speakers  are  so  much  at  one  in 
opinion  and  so  destitute  of  any  other  characteriza- 
tion that  the  reader  actually  finds  it  immaterial  to 
remember  which  interlocutor  is  speaking.  Of  what 
use  then,  we  ask,  is  the  dramatic  form,  except  to 
enable  Landor  to  deliver  his  opinions  without  the 
trouble  of  organizing  them  into  an  essay  or 
treatise?  What  is  gained  by  attaching  the  names 
of  Franklin  and  Washington  to  general  diatribes 
against  national  debts  or  religious  dogmas?  A  con- 
versation should  develop  and  exhibit  character,  not 
efface  it.  Even  where  dramatic  truth  is  more  espe- 
cially sought  by  Landor,  his  characters  are  likely  to 
be  painted  with  a  broad  brush  and  after  a  very 
monotonous  pattern.  The  heroic  lowly,  for  ex- 
ample, can  seldom  conceal  their  contempt  for  the 
powerful,  while  the  powerful  are  almost  without 
exception  blind  to  heroism  and  incapable  of  under- 
standing any  motive  but  selfishness. 

Again,  a  conversation  should  have  animation, 
diversity, — diversity,  that  is,  of  the  formal  kind, 
which  is  yet  consistent  with  unity  of  substance. 
Too  many  of  these  didactic  conversations  have  not. 
In  other  words,  Landor  the  philosopher  sometimes 
drones.  We  concede  it  to  be  the  most  admirable 
droning  that  ever  was,  but  we  nod  under  it  none  the 
less.  The  defect  was  not  wholly  temperamental. 
LanJjr  could  be  sprightly,  after  a  fashion:  no  one 


xxxil  INTRODUCTION. 

who  remembers  the  playful  unbending  in  the 
Pentumeron  or  in  Epicurus,  Leontion,  and  Ternissa, 
will  deny  it.  And  he  could  perceive,  or  feign  to 
perceive,  the  defect  in  Plato:  "The  voice  ought 
not  to  be  perpetually  nor  much  elevated  in  the 
ethic  and  didactic,  nor  to  roll  sonorously,  as  if  it 
issued  from  a  mask  in  the  theater."  But  the  later 
dialogist  is  scarcely  more  given  to  modulation. 
Possibly  he  suspected  that  his  voice  was  unsteady 
on  the  lower  notes.  At  any  rate,  he  was  ready 
with  a  defense:  the  dialogue  of  statesmen  and 
philosophers,  he  protested,  "appertains  to  disser- 
tation and  should  not  resemble  the  dialogue  of 
comedians."  Nevertheless,  we  feel  that  its  aus- 
terity constitutes  the  most  serious  limitation  of  this 
part  of  his  work.  We  would  give  a  great  deal  for 
more  of  the  comic  spirit,  the  airiness  of  tone,  the 
sparkling  repartee,  that  have  added  so  much  to  the 
charm  of  occasional  later  experiments  in  this  field 
by  lesser  men. 

It  is  in  point  of  content  that  this  severer  portion 
of  Landor's  work  yields  most  to  praise.  His  ethic 
bias  is  everywhere  strong.  He  was  a  creature  of 
prejudices;  he  could  not  eliminate  the  personal 
equation.  And  he  was  overfond  of  supporting  opin- 
ions that  others  reject;  he  makes  Epicurus  boast  of 
having,  all  his  life,  planted  those  roots  which  other 
people  dug  up  and  threw  away.  lUit  when  his 
heart  was  right — which  was  very  often,  nor  is  it 
hard  to  detect  when — he  poured  forth  that  volumi- 
nous torrent  of  noble  sentiments  which  Emerson 
summed  up,  with  an  unfortunate  emphasis  upon 


INTRODUCTION.  xxxiii 

their  least  lovely  quality,  as  "  wisdom,  wit,  and 
indignation  that  are  unforgetable. "  In  defense  of 
weakness,  in  scorn  of  hypocrisy,  in  praise  of  justice 
and  magnanimity,  he  does  not  weary.  He  may  not 
give  us  ultimate  truth,  truth  as  distinguished  from 
truths:  a  philosophy  of  life,  we  have  said,  it  was 
not  his  to  build.  Nor  does  he  often  descend  to  the 
plane  of  homely  wisdom  which  has  been  made 
familiar  to  us  by  philosophers  like  Bacon  and 
Franklin.  But  in  the  domain  of  generous  and  lofty 
sentiments,  which  every  man  likes  to  feel  that  he 
would  cultivate  more  diligently  if  only  the  stress  of 
life  allowed,  he  has  given  a  memorable  utterance 
to  perhaps  more  truths  than  any  other  English 
prose  writer.  And  sometimes  too  the  poet  in 
him  triumphs  so  far  over  the  mere  reasoner  that  he 
rises  to  a  largeness  of  truth  equaled  only  by  the 
great  poets.  "  How  near  together,"  says  Bishop 
Burnet  to  Humphrey  Hardcastle  in  a  conversation 
upon  the  nature  of  fame,  "are  things  which  appear 
to  us  the  most  remote  and  opposite! — how  near  to 
death  is  life,  and  vanity  to  glory!  How  deceived 
are  we,  if  our  expressions  are  any  proof  of  it,  in 
what  we  might  deem  the  very  matters  most  subject 
to  our  senses!  The  haze  above  our  heads  we  call 
the  heavens,  and  the  thinnest  of  air  the  firmament." 
Passages  like  these  give  that  strange  pause  which 
the  mind  always  suffers  under  a  new  revelation. 

But  largeness  of  abstract  truth  and  sublimity  of 
utterance  are,  after  all,  matters  of  secondary 
interest  in  a  world  of  which  man  finds  or  fancies 
himself  the  center.  However  great  for  us  the 


xxxiv  INTRODUCTION; 

charm  of  sentiment  in  these  philosophic  dialogues, 
still  greater  is  the  charm  of  character  when  charac- 
ter is  allowed  to  appear.  For  not  all  of  Landor's 
creatures  are  marionettes.  Now  and  then  the 
fingers  twitch,  the  eyes  light  up  with  sympathy,  the 
voices  vibrate  with  human  passion,  and  we  find  our- 
selves on  the  threshold  of  the  dramatic  dialogues 
with  their  array  of  beautiful  or  commanding  per- 
sonalities so  magically  summoned  to  life  on  this 
mimic  stage.  There  is  the  picture  of  Izaak  Walton 
tarrying  on  the  bridge  while  his  jade  winces  from 
the  stings  of  the  fly  that  would  make  such  a 
delicious  morsel  for  the  strawberry-spotted  trout  or 
the  ash-colored  grayling  below.  There  is  the  same 
Walton  luring  himself  to  a  seat  on  the  tulip-pied 
turf  of  his  friend,  the  "  sunny  saint,  good  master 
William  Oldways. "  There  is  Addison  as  Steele 
looked  back  upon  him  in  the  days  of  their  friend- 
ship, "  in  his  arm-chair,  his  right  hand  upon  his 
heart  under  the  fawn-colored  waistcoat,  his  brow 
erect  and  clear  as  his  conscience;  his  wig  even  ami 
composed  as  his  temper,  with  measurely  curls  and 
antithetical  top-knots,  like  his  style;  the  calmest 
poet,  the  most  quiet  patriot:  dear  Addison!  drunk, 
deliberate,  moral,  sentimental,  foaming  over  with 
truth  and  virtue,  with  tenderness  and  friendship, 
and  only  the  worse  in  one  ruffle  for  the  wine." 
There  is  the  figure  of  Demosthenes  as  Demos- 
thenes is  made  to  portray  it  himself,  without  a  sin- 
gle descriptive  epithet  yet  none  the  less  vivid  and 
complete:  "  I  have  seen  the  day,  Eubulides,  when 
the  most  august  of  cities  had  but  one  voice  within 


INTRODUCTION.  XXXV 

her  walls;  and  when  the  stranger  on  entering  them 
stopped  at  the  silence  of  the  gateway  and  said, 
'  Demosthenes  is  speaking  in  the  assembly  of  the 
people.'  " 

By  long  contemplation  of  figures  like  these,  the 
great  and  greatly  good  and  greatly  wicked  of  all 
ages,  "shapes  of  majestic  or  tumultuous  tread," 
Landor  was  inevitably  led  to  the  construction  of 
those  scenes  which  should  portray  them  at  some 
crucial  moment  of  their  lives.  These  are  the 
Dramatic  conversations  proper.  Helen  in  the  pres- 
ence of  her  wronged  countryman  Achilles,  Hanni- 
bal in  triumph  before  Marcellus  in  death,  Tiberius 
torn  between  filial  and  husbandly  love,  Catharine 
listening  outside  the  door  to  the  murder  of  her  hus- 
band, Spenser  in  desolation,  Bacon  in  disgrace — such 
are  the  characters  chosen  and  such  are  the  essen- 
tially tragic  situations  in  which  they  are  delineated. 
The  scenes  are  necessarily  brief,  and  the  conversa- 
tions, scarcely  above  twenty  in  all,  constitute  but  a 
small  fraction  of  the  total  number,  though  in  every 
way  the  most  noteworthy  fraction.  For  the  poor- 
est are  rarely  mediocre,  engaging  an  interest  that  is 
always  near  to  fascination,  while  the  best  of  them 
exhibit  Landor's  power  at  its  utmost  reach. 

But  before  they  can  be  given  their  right  measure 
of  praise,  some  limits  must  be  noted  to  their  scope 
and  method.  One  is  a  limit  that  inheres  in  their 
nature.  Drama  is  not  history.  This  is  not  the 
temper  in  which  history  is  written.  There  are  all 
the  temptations  to  the  imagination,  the  freedom 
from  responsibility,  the  desire  for  effect,  that 


xxx  VI  INTRODUCTION. 

assail  the  historical  romancer.  While  Lanclor  was 
little  tempted  to  insincere  ostentation,  nevertheless 
the  historian  is  sure  to  rise  and  declare,  this  is  not 
history.  No,  we  can  only  answer,  but  it  is  poetry. 
And  some  of  us  are  not  without  the  conviction  that 
fiction  may  be  truer  than  fact.  But,  it  may  be 
objected,  Landor's  characters  are  often  not  real 
enough.  His  Maid  of  Orleans,  his  Agnes  Sorel,  we 
cannot  for  a  moment  imagine  to  be  the  real  women 
of  history.  They  are  something  more  than  voices, 
yet  scarcely  flesh  and  blood.  They  are  fine  in  their 
way,  but  they  are  only  creatures  of  imagination — of 
an  imagination  that  gives  them  but  a  mimic,  stage 
life.  And  it  must  be  admitted  that  while  no  man  can 
hope  to  recreate  with  entire  fidelity  an  historical 
character,  the  dramatist  should  at  least  give  the 
illusion  of  reality.  Perhaps  here  again  the  fault 
lies  partly  in  the  method.  The  drama  deals  more 
safely  with  tradition  than  with  history.  Wagner, 
setting  about  the  composition  of  his  great  tetralogy, 
rejected  the  historical  Barbarossa  for  the  legendary 
Siegfried,  and  no  doubt  wisely.  Shakespeare's 
highest  conceptions  lie  outside  the  [Kile  of  history. 
And  the  more  remotely  into  history  Landor  goes, 
for  his  /Ksop  and  Khodope,  his  Marcellus  and 
Hannibal,  his  Leofric  and  (lodiva,  the  more  suc- 
cessful he  is. 

Vet  Landor  was  not  in  himself  a  great  dramatist, 
like  Shakespeare,  Goethe,  IJal/.ac,  or  even  Hugo  or 
Dickens.  He  wanted  the  primary  requisites,  self- 
effacement  and  a  catholic  sympathy.  He  could  not 
easily  get  out  of  himself,  and  when  he  could  he 


INTRODUCTION.  xxxvil 

could  not  compass  the  wide  range  of  human  life, 
from  Audrey  to  Cordelia,  from  Falstaff  to  Lear. 
Even  within  his  range  he  was  too  prone,  as  we  have 
seen,  to  divide  men  off  into  classes  without  allowing 
for  individual  distinctions.  His  priests  are  nearly 
all  hypocrites  who  pray  for  fine  weather  by  the  ba- 
rometer. His  women,  nobly  conceived  as  some  of 
them  are, — Mr.  Colvin  would  set  them  next  to 
Shakespeare's! — are  likely  to  be  now  mannish  and 
coarse-fibered,  now,  in  Mr.  Colvin's  own  phrase, 
"giggly,  missish,  and  disconcerting."  These  are 
serious  deficiencies.  But  Landor  met  them  in  the 
only  way  possible,  and  met  them  well.  He  is  con- 
tent with  a  character  and  a  passion.  He  never 
seeks  the  motley,  nor  crowds  his  stage.  In 
short,  it  is  not  drama  that  he  gives  us,  but  a  dra- 
matic situation.  The  situation  itself  is  sometimes 
tremendous — no  weaker  word  will  describe  it. 
Bossuet,  before  the  frivolous  Duchess  de  Fon- 
tanges,  talks  of  the  frailty  of  life,  and  the  worn 
text  is  transmuted  into  power  by  the  slipping 
of  a  ring  from  his  age-shrunken  finger,  while  its 
clamorous  fall  upon  the  chamber  floor  reverberates 
like  the  thunder  of  destiny  in  the  ears  of  the  star- 
tled girl.  It  is  but  an  idle  criticism  of  such  drama 
to  complain  that  there  is  no  action.  No  action  is 
attempted.  The  characters  are  not  there  to  do 
anything,  only  to  be  and  to  suffer.  There  is  neither 
evolution  nor  climax,  only  a  crisis — the  tension  and 
pause  that  come  when  a  great  soul  grapples  with 
fate  in  an  equal  conflict.  For  this,  character  and 
passion  suffice. 


XXXV111  INTRODUCTION'. 

The  character,  within  Lander's  limitations,  does 
not  fail.  Into  a  character  not  over  subtle  or  com- 
plex, one  heroically  good  or  monstrously  evil,  he 
entered  with  ease,  for  his  sympathies,  if  not  broad, 
were  deep.  But  it  is  the  central  fire  of  passion  that 
suffuses  his  characters  with  life,  transferring  them 
from  the  stage  of  the  theater  to  the  stage  of  the 
world.  Herein  lies  the  secret  of  his  dramatic  power, 
and  the  quality  that  differentiates  the  dramatic  dia- 
logues from  the  philosophic.  In  the  philosophic 
the  characters  are  mechanically  chosen  and  they 
always  speak  from  a  stage,  conscious  of  their  audi- 
ence. Sometimes  they  shrink  to  the  thinnest  masks, 
whence  only  Lander's  voice  is  heard.  At  best, 
there  is  not  sufficient  passion  to  humanize  and 
realize  them.  They  move  and  speak  in  a  rare 
atmosphere.  They  seldom  condescend,  even  to 
each  other.  Bosom-friends  hold  intercourse  like 
kings,  each  hedged  by  his  own  divinity,  or  like  the 
gods  fabled  by  the  philosophers,  spherical  and  per- 
fect. We  long  for  some  show  of  emotion,  some 
intimacy,  some  spontaneous  human  exchange;  but 
each  preserves  his  inviolate  rotundity  and  the  only 
contact  is  hard  and  punctual.  There  is  some  com- 
pensation in  the  safety  which  all  this  restraint  in- 
sures. Rebukes,  irony,  badinage,  even  a  coarse 
jest,  are  passed  with  dignity  and  a  kind  of  courtesy 
and  good  breeding  that  preclude  any  fear  on  the 
reader's  part  of  a  violent  ending  to  the  scene.  Hut 
this  is  not  drama.  Nor  are  the  Dramatic  dialogues 
written  in  any  such  temper.  Occasionally,  indeed, 
even  they  are  marred  by  something  of  the  same 


INTRODUCTION,  xxxix 

primness  and  formality.  Unreasoning  human  im- 
pulse is  not  always  allowed  to  be  a  sufficient  motive 
for  action — the  actor  appeals  first  to  the  court  of 
his  intellect.  "Be  seated,  O  Helena,"  says  Achil- 
les; and  Helena  complies  only  with  a  double 
apology:  "  The  feeble  are  obedient;  the  weary  may 
rest  even  in  the  presence  of  the  powerful."  But 
in  more  inspired  moments  wisdom  itself  becomes 
warmed,  and  what  would  have  been  a  philosophic 
abstraction,  cold  and  sententious,  from  the  lips  of 
Cicero  or  Epictetus,  is  glorified  by  being  put  into 
the  mouth  of  human  passion  and  applied  in  a  crisis 
of  human  life.  And  when  Lander's  sympathy  is 
once  wholly  engaged,  when  his  characters  take 
possession  of  him,  and  their  passions,  refined  by 
suffering,  exalted  by  self-sacrifice,  frenzied  by 
grief,  surge  beyond  his  control  till  he  can  only 
watch  and  weep  over  them,  as  he  did  over  the  in- 
comparable Tiberius  and  Vipsania,  the  illusion  is 
complete.  Drama  and  life  are  one. 

The  Political  and  Critical  dialogues  are  upon  a 
much  lower  plane.  The  Political  in  particular,  or 
those  portions  of  the  more  desultory  conversations 
that  touch  upon  political  themes,  have  little  value 
of  substance  and  tend  too  much  toward  the  declama- 
tory in  style.  Mr.  Colvin  sums  the  matter  up 
when  he  says  that  in  the  sphere  of  politics  and 
government  Landor  never  got  much  beyond  the 
elementary  principles  of  love  of  freedom  and  hatred 
of  tyranny.  He  had  not  the  civic  temperament. 
He  professed  to  despise  politicians.  He  was  sus- 
picious of  the  integrity  of  men  in  public  life.  He 


xl  IN  TROD  UC  TION. 

never  affiliated  closely  with  any  party,  holding 
tenaciously  to  his  own  not  always  consistent  views. 
He  knew  the  Tories  would  hate  him  for  his  abhor- 
rence of  the  Holy  Alliance,  the  Whigs  for  his  con- 
tempt of  Napoleon.  At  Oxford  he  had  worn  his 
hair  without  powder  ("in  a  queue  tied  with  black 
ribbon")  at  the  risk  of  being  stoned  for  a  republi- 
can; and  he  remained  an  ardent  republican  in  sen- 
timent all  his  days.  But  his  instincts  were  quite  too 
aristocratic  to  enable  him  to  go  the  full  length  of 
democracy.  "Let  me  confess  to  you,"  Cleone 
writes  to  Aspasia,  "  I  do  not  like  your  sheer 
democracies."  The  difficulty  with  him  was  to  rec- 
oncile the  rights  of  the  individual  as  represented  by 
himself  with  the  rights  of  the  individual  as  repre- 
sented by  the  "average  man."  Monarchy's  yoke  of 
oppression  was  intolerable,  but  scarcely  less  so  was 
democracy's  yoke  of  equality.  He  could  not,  like 
Whitman,  call  every  boor  brother.  With  personal 
prejudices  and  poetic  sensibilities  thus  always  at 
war  with  an  intellectual  ideal, — enacting  in  his  own 
breast  the  conflict  of  Marino  Faliero,  doge  of  that 
Venice  whose  republican  form  of  government  he 
praised  as  the  happiest  on  earth, — his  opinions  on 
statecraft  were  not  likely  to  be  consistent  or  con- 
vincing. He  exalted  Prince  Louis  Napoleon  far  above 
that  prince's  renowned  uncle.  His  unpleasant  ex- 
perience with  English  courts  of  law  made  him  bitter 
against  English  justice.  He  was  fond  of  satirizing 
English  institutions  in  general,  though  such  satire, 
put  into  the  mouth  of  a  Russian  despot  or  an  absurd 
Chinese  mandarin,  lost  much  of  its  effect.  He  re- 


INTRODUCTION.  xli 

mained  provincially  British,  however,  in  his  hatred 
of  the  French,  with  whom  he  believed  vain-glory, 
insolence,  perfidy,  and  inhumanity  to  be  ingrained 
national  traits.  The  French  Revolution  had  been 
a  fine  thing  to  warm  the  heart  of  youth,  but  its 
agents  were  wicked,  its  issues  calamitous.  France 
could  invent  only  "her  emblematic  balloon,  the 
symbol  of  herself, — flimsy,  varnished,  inflated,  rest- 
less, wavering,  swaggering."  Clearly  Landor  was 
no  Solon  in  modern  politics.  He  worked  best 
among  the  passions  that  are  viewed  through  the 
subdued  light  of  centuries.  The  statesmanship  of 
Pericles,  the  policy  of  Athens,  the  military  exploits 
of  Scipio  ^Emilianus,  afforded  him  more  congenial 
themes. 

It  would  be  easy  to  make  light  of  these  defects 
by  regarding  them  as  only  the  accidents  of  one  kind 
of  greatness,  the  defects  of  a  quality.  Could  we 
for  a  moment  ignore  the  existence  of  his  strong 
prejudices,  we  might  really  feel  that  Lander's  views 
upon  contemporary  politics  and  history  are  rendered 
worthless  by  the  very  range  of  his  vision.  Not 
that  he  was  a  prophet  of  the  future — in  that  capac- 
ity he  succeeded  exactly  as  all  others,  hitting  and 
missing.  Writing  in  1824,  he  made  Franklin  de- 
clare that  wars  would  be  impossible  among  our 
newly  federated  States — which  nevertheless  he 
lived  to  see;  while  in  1851,  with  an  augury  to  which 
events  in  the  close  of  the  century  are  giving  at  least 
a  passing  interest,  he  anticipated  an  alliance  of 
America  with  England,  and  remarked  that  the 
possession  of  California  had  opened  the  Pacific  and 


xlii  INTRODUCTION. 

Indian  seas  to  the  Americans,  "who  must  within 
the  lifetime  of  some  now  born  predominate  in  both." 
But  Landor  did  see  the  drift  of  things  in  the  large. 
"  All  governments  run  ultimately  into  the  great  gulf 
of  despotism,  widen  or  contract  them,  straighten  or 
divert  them,  as  you  will.  From  this  gulf  the  Prov- 
idence that  rules  all  nature  liberates  them.  Again 
they  return,  to  be  again  absorbed,  at  periods  not 
foreseen  or  calculable."  Before  this  magnificent 
spectacle  of  history  seen  entire,  what  are  all  the 
petty  tricks  and  makeshifts  of  statecraft,  the  tem- 
porizing and  compromising  of  calculating  politicians? 
At  least  the  eye  that  could  see  this  may  be  forgiven 
fordistorting  the  perspective  of  nearer  objects,  and 
we  can  understand  Landor's  assertion  that  the 
writing  of  political  dialogues  was  a  most  difficult 
task,  since  "a  man  does  not  lose  so  much  breath 
by  raising  his  hand  above  his  head  as  by  stooping 
to  tie  his  shoe-string." 

His  ventures  into  the  quieter  field  of  literary 
criticism  were  in  general  more  successful.  It 
is  true  he  did  not  understand  criticism  as  we 
understand  it  to-day.  He  came  somewhat  before 
Sainte-Beuve  and  his  disciples.  Sympathy  with  an 
author  or  his  purpose  was  allowed  to  play  little 
part.  He  treated  a  poem  much  like  a  statue,  as 
a  detached  work  of  art,  a  creation  of  objective 
beauty  in  which  the  moral  idea  is  nothing,  the  form 
everything.  This  means  that  much  of  his  criticism 
was  spent  upon  mere  technical  details,  such  as 
words,  meters,  and  sounds.  Kvcn  a  very  intelli- 
gent and  alert  reader  may  be  supposed  to  care 


INTRODUCTION.  xliii 

little  for  the  slight  incongruity  of  such  a  phrase  as 
"lips  essayed  to  groan,"  yet  Landor  delights  in 
searching  a  poem  of  Byron's  or  Wordsworth's  line 
by  line  for  just  such  flaws  as  this.  It  is  like  the 
folly,  which  he  somewhere  satirizes,  of  throwing 
pin-cushions  at  the  Belvedere  Apollo.  Nor  can  we 
follow  him  in  his  rapture  over  Tibullus  because  of 
the  latter's  "judicious  preference  of  the  spondee 
as  one  foot  of  the  first  hemistich  of  the  pentam- 
eter." The  criticism  may  have  some  value  as 
coming  from  so  expert  a  classical  metrist,  but 
even  this  is  doubtful  if  the  fling  at  the  "  skittish 
Sapphic,"  which  he  puts  into  the  mouth  of  Pollio, 
be  allowable  evidence.  He  spent  much  time  over 
English  spelling  and  could  scarcely  be  dissuaded 
from  introducing  sweeping  reforms  into  his  printed 
works.  His  prejudices,  too,  clouded  his  judgment. 
He  makes  Time  the  final  and  infallible  arbiter  of 
all  men's  work — except  Plato's.  He  ranked  as  a 
great  poet  his  friend  Southey,  whose  gander, 
Byron  declared  with  characteristic  irreverence,  he 
mistook  for  a  swan.  He  praised  Wordsworth  until 
he  heard  him  sneer  at  Southey's  poetry,  and  then: 
"Among  all  the  bran  in  the  little  bins  of  Mr. 
Wordsworth's  beer-cellar  there  is  not  a  legal  quart 
of  stout  old  English  beverage."  He  descends  to 
puerilities.  He  finds  metrical  passages  in  the  prose 
of  Demosthenes  and  rhymes  in  Plato,  though  such 
things  can  be  discovered  in  any  great  body  of 
prose,  his  own  not  excepted.  He  carps  at  the 
anachronism,  in  Paradise  Lost,  of  Satan's  phalanx 
moving  to  the  Dorian  mood,  and  at  Adam's  speak- 


xliv  INTRODUCTION. 

ing  of  the  sun  painting  mists  with  gold  when  Adam 
could  know  nothing  of  paint  or  gold;  not  seeing 
that  such  strictures,  pushed  to  their  logical  limit, 
would  destroy  the  possibility  of  putting  any  words 
at  all  into  the  mouth  of  Adam,  or  of  writing  any 
Paradise  Lost.  But  when  all  this  is  said,  there 
remains  much  criticism  of  such  a  high  quality,  so 
prodigious  in  range  of  knowledge  and  taste,  so 
judicial  and  sincere  in  tone,  as  to  command  both 
respect  and  gratitude.  He  has  passed  by  few  of 
the  world's  gre^t  writers  without  some  luminous 
observation.  Many,  like  Pindar,  Catullus,  Cicero, 
Petrarch,  Boccaccio,  get  quite  their  full  meed  of 
praise.  If  he  did  Scott,  Byron,  and  Wordsworth, 
for  example,  scant  justice,  he  made  ample  amends 
in  his  generous  appreciation  of  his  other  contem- 
poraries, Lamb,  Keats,  Shelley,  and  Southey,  and, 
above  all,  of  his  earlier  countryman  through  whose 
"trumpet  burst  God's  word,"  his  master,  Milton. 

Touching  the  style  in  which  this  varied  matter  is 
clothed  it  must  be  said  at  once  that,  could  such  a 
computation  be  made,  Lander's  prose  would  proba- 
bly be  found  to  unite  in  itself  more  excellences  with 
fewer  defects  than  that  of  any  other  English  writer. 
Other  names  rise  more  readily  to  the  lips,  because 
other  men  have  surpassed  him  in  some  specific 
quality — Pater  in  subtle  sensuousness,  Ruskin  in 
richness  of  passionate  coloring,  De  Quincey  in 
volume  of  sound,  Lamb  in  sweetness,  Milton  and 
Hooker  in  sheer  pomp  of  phrase — and  we  are  prone 
to  judge  a  man  by  his  highest  achievement;  but  for 


INTRODUCTION.  xlv 

artistic  balance  of  many  virtues  he  stands  fairly 
alone.  He  might  even  have  surpassed  some  of 
these  in  their  own  qualities  had  he  not  held  rigor- 
ously to  an  ideal  of  prose  which  kept  it  from  in- 
vading the  province  of  any  other  art,  and  especially 
poetry.  He  attained  distinction,  not  by  running 
after  strange  gods,  but  by  refusing  to  run  after 
them.  He  performed  the  really  great  feat  of 
achieving  individuality  of  style  without  mannerism. 
There  is  scarcely  an  ear-mark  to  know  it  by,  and 
yet  it  is  all  unmistakably  Landorian. 

Among  the  pervading  qualities  which  made  for 
this  distinction,  perhaps  the  most  jealously  guarded 
was  originality — an  originality  that  never,  of  course, 
degenerated  to  idiosyncrasy.  It  is  not  merely 
that  he  avoided  the  thousand  and  one  phrases 
which  are  current  in  our  speech  and  which 
serve  the  journalist  so  well  because  they  are 
already  perfected  and  polished  and  fitted  to  their 
place.  These  are  dialect  and  were  necessarily 
banned  for  their  vulgarity,  though  possibly  there 
was  a  degree  of  snobbishness  in  such  studious  ban- 
ning. But,  more  than  this,  his  style  is  almost  en- 
tirely without  a  suspicion  of  indebtedness.  Save 
for  a  word  at  rare  intervals  from  the  Elizabethans 
or  from  the  Bible,  not  a  phrase,  not  a  figure,  not 
the  turn  of  a  thought,  ever  suggests  a  forerunner. 
If  a  passage  once  written  was  discovered  to  have  a 
prototype,  it  was  immediately  rejected.  He  carried 
this  independence  so  far  as  even  to  disdain  quota- 
tion. To  disdain  it  of  course  was  not  to  escape  it. 
Had  he  stopped  to  reflect  how  relative  this  matter 


xlvi  I 

is,  how  far  subtler  than  the  mere  echoing  of  words, 
he  would  have  realized  that  there  is  no  escape. 
Nevertheless,  the  instinct  to  avoid  bald  quotation 
was  peculiarly  fine  and  true.  Nothing  could  better 
attest  his  own  appreciation  of  style.  Interject 
a  characteristic  phrase  from  Rossini  into  one  of 
Chopin's  nocturnes  and  where  is  harmony?  But 
the  harmony  of  tone  was  purchased  dearly.  His 
proud  refusal  to  draw  upon  the  stores  of  other 
minds  leaves  his  work  barren  by  the  side  of  a 
Macaulay's  or  a  Lowell's.  He  was  richer  than 
these  men  in  his  own  resources,  but  he  was  not 
a  Shakespeare  to  stand  alone. 

The  purity  of  his  style  is  almost  as  much  beyond 
question  as  its  originality.  He  was  highly  incensed 
at  those  modern  authors  who  permitted  themselves 
to  defile  our  well  of  English.  He  seemed  to  feel 
himself  almost  alone  in  his  loyalty;  Carlyle's 
Frederick  the  Great  convinced  him  that  he  wrote 
"  two  dead  languages — Latin  and  English."  For- 
eign words  he  eschewed.  New  words  he  was 
slow  to  accept,  though  he  did  not,  like  Macaulay, 
affect  to  scorn  a  coinage,  feeling  that  "all  words 
are  good  which  come  when  they  are  wanted." 
Thus  he  admitted  J'hryzianise ;  and  he  wrote  the- 
vphtigints  in  one  edition,  though  his  conservative 
fears  expunged  it  in  the  next.  Archaisms  found 
more  favor  with  him,  and  the  unfamiliar  words 
which  even  readers  ot  wide  range;  will  come  upon 
here  and  there — /V,//(v/A>//.c,  irrisorv,  intempestire, 
ii'isi-rftdtii'H,  /V/T/iW, v'/r,  »v,v/Vc/ — arc  mostly  of  this 
class.  It  is  possible,  however,  that  these  were 


INTRODUCTION.  xlvii 

constructed  from  his  knowledge  of  Latin  rather 
than  drawn  from  his  reading  in  old  English.  Such 
is  almost  certainly  the  case  with  the  few  technical 
terms  of  science,  like  carious  and  ebulliate,  for  he 
was  little  interested  in  the  sciences.  He  had  a 
keen  sense  of  the  meaning  of  words.  He  was  not 
to  be  deceived  by  the  poetic  glamour  of  an  absurd 
phrase  like  "unbidden  tears,"  and  he  has  some- 
where intimated  that  "God's  anointed  "  is  nothing 
other  than  "  God's  greased." 

But  there  is  another  quality,  not  wholly  unrelated 
to  originality  and  purity,  which  every  reader  soon 
learns  to  associate  with  Lander's  style,  and  for 
which  perhaps  the  best  name  is  severity.  The 
presence  of  the  severe  eye  and  the  severe  hand  is 
manifest  on  every  page.  No  modern  writer  has 
adhered  more  inflexibly  to  the  Greek  ideal  of  jArjdtv 
ayav — nothing  overmuch.  Every  excrescence  of 
thought,  every  superfluity  of  phrase,  down  to  the 
last  particle,  is  shorn  away.  The  elliptical  Pindar 
and  the  sententious  Bacon  excite  his  approval. 
Obscurity  he  professed  to  abhor,  but  he  abhorred 
prolixity  more,  and  we  are  sometimes  left  face  to 
face  with  a  bare  ejaculation  and  no  clew  to  its 
meaning.  He  that  runs  may  not  read  Landor. 

And  this  compression  of  matter,  which  makes 
him  the  most  aphoristic  writer  between  Bacon  and 
Emerson,  is  only  greater  than  the  vigilant  restraint 
everywhere  exercised  over  form.  He  was  averse 
from  the  many  rhetorical  tricks — hyperbole,  bal- 
ance, repetition,  antithesis — that  make  the  stock  in 
trade  of  more  superficially  brilliant  writers.  What- 


xlviii  INTRODUCTION. 

ever  was  gaudy  was  to  him  meretricious  and  vulgar. 
Ornament  he  would  have,  some  remission  of 
severity,  but  only  of  the  richest — brocade,  and 
never  tinsel.  In  just  one  direction,  perhaps,  he 
relaxed  his  severity  too  far.  He  was  tempted  to 
excess  of  figures,  the  temptation  of  the  imaginative 
mind.  He  held  that  metaphors  should  be  used 
sparingly:  "that  man  sees  badly  who  sees  every- 
thing double."  Vet  his  own  metaphors  are  frequent 
and  full.  He  resorted  most  freely  to  the  similitude, 
which  he  employed  to  explain  and  enforce  a  fore- 
going aphorism.  Thus,  for  example,  Bacon  is  made 
to  defend  chastity  of  style: 

Something  of  the  severe  hath  always  been  appertaining  to 
order  and  grace  ;  and  the  beauty  that  is  not  liberal  is  sought  the 
most  ardently  and  loved  the  longest.  The  Graces  have  their 
zones,  and  Venus  her  cestus. 

And  thus  Agnes  Sorel  sighs  over  the  instability  of 
love  : 

Alas  !  Alas  !  Time  loosens  man's  affections.  I  may  become 
unworthy.  In  the  sweetest  (lower  there  is  much  that  is  not  fra- 
grance, and  which  transpires  when  the  freshness  has  passed  away. 

Such  figures,  it  must  be  admitted,  have  a  beauty 
quite  independent  of  their  use.  I'.ut  even  of  beautv 
there  may  be  a  surfeit.  besides,  they  are  over- 
refined.  They  are  not  wild-flowers  of  the  imagina- 
tion, but  carefully  tended  plants.  Thev  affect  us 
somewhat  as  Abdul's  handmaiden,  Almeida,  whose 
human  qualities,  in  Kilipp.)  I.ippi's  description, 
presented  themselves  always  beneath  an  exterior 


INTRODUCTION.  xlix 

"cool,  smooth,  and  firm  as  a  nectarine  gathered 
before  sunrise."  We  feel  the  allurement,  as  of 
something  supersensually  sensuous,  but  we  are  not 
warmed  beyond  admiration. 

The  old  question  will  thrust  itself  forward  here, 
whether  we  are  to  range  Landor  with  the  classic  or 
with  the  romantic  writers.  Critics  cannot  quite 
agree,  though  usually  uniting  with  Mr.  Colvin  in 
placing  him  on  the  classic  side.  Surely  the  matter, 
though  not  simple,  is  clear.  There  were  two  men 
in  Landor — one  of  very  romantic  temper,  which 
was  always  rising  to  the  surface  and  impressing 
itself  upon  those  who  came  into  casual  contact 
with  him;  the  other,  serene  and  self-controlled, 
reserved  for  his  few  intimate  friends,  and  betrayed 
to  the  world  only  in  his  works  of  purest  art.  Right 
here  indeed  is  the  main  wonder,  that  a  man  of  such 
tremendous  energies,  such  perverse  and  impetuous 
self-will,  should  achieve  this  well-nigh  absolute 
restraint.  Passionate,  rebellious,  individualistic 
by  nature,  when  he  approaches  his  art  how  calm 
and  conservative!  how  he  ranges  his  forces  on  the 
side  of  law  and  order,  confronting  the  barbarian 
hordes  of  the  romanticists  with  a  solid  Macedonian 
phalanx!  For  classicism  means  predominance  of 
intellect  and  the  sense  for  artistic  restraint,  while 
romanticism  means  predominance  of  emotion  and 
the  impulse  toward  natural  freedom.  The  one 
makes  for  definiteness  of  conception,  severity  of 
form,  simplicity,  purity,  permanence;  the  other  for 
subtlety  of  impression,  riot  of  color,  exuberance, 
lawlessness,  change.  It  is  n  >t  that  Landor  totally 


1  INTRODUCTION. 

repressed  his  romantic  tendencies.  They  show 
quite  frequently  enough  to  account  for  the  con- 
fusion of  critics.  It  would  be  strange  indeed  if  no 
traces  of  the  man  who  echoed  the  republican  senti- 
ments of  Milton  and  lauded  the  sensuous  art  of 
Keats  should  be  found  in  all  his  voluminous  works, 
professedly  dramatic  and  objective  though  they  be. 
And  the  traces  are  there — now  in  a  touch  of  most 
delicate  nature-feeling,  now  in  a  bit  of  arabesque 
description,  now  in  a  cry  of  very  human  passion. 
Hut  for  the  most  part  Landor  the  artist  sits  above 
unmoved,  judging  and  regulating. 

This  will  go  far,  too,  toward  explaining  his  unique 
position — apart  from  men  of  the  second  order  of 
genius,  yet  distinctly  below  those  of  the  first.  He 
aimed  to  stand  with  the  latter  in  possessing  both 
the  romantic  and  the  classic  temper  and  preserving 
them  in  perfect  balance.  Or,  as  he  might  have 
formulated  to  himself  what  was  of  course  never  a 
distinctly  conscious  aim,  he  tried  to  maintain  a 
richly  endowed  nature  in  harmonious  development. 
Thus  far  he  succeeded,  but  unfortunately  his  in- 
tellect was  not  of  the  first  order.  Had  he  realized 
this  and  given  free  play  to  his  romantic  tendencies, 
he  would  have  attracted  at  once  that  wide  public 
which  is  always  susceptible  to  emotional  appeals 
and  is  caught  by  glitter  and  noise.  But  he  set  his 
face  the  other  way,  subduing  his  nature  to  the 
measure  of  his  intellect  and  aspiring  to  the  company 
of  Homer  and  Shakespeare.  The  balance  was  se- 
cured, but  the  companionship  must  be  denied,  for 
he  lacked  the  highest  attribute  of  pure  intellect, 


IN  TROD  UCTION.  1  i 

the  faculty  for  synthesis  and  organization,  without 
which  no  depth  or  fervor  of  imagination  can  pro- 
duce a  transcendent  work  of  art. 

So  far  as  mere  style  goes,  the  effect  of  this  classic 
restraint  is  disappointing  upon  all  but  those  who 
rejoice  in  the  gift,  or  suffer  under  the  affliction,  of 
what  pathology  knows  as  hypersesthesia.  The 
recently  discovered  Delphic  hymn  to  Apollo  seems 
to  us  strangely  monotonous  in  its  melody.  But  it 
is  only  a  type  of  all  Greek  art.  The  modulation  is 
there,  so  surely  as  the  entasis  is  in  the  shaft]  of 
the  Doric  column,  though  our  ears  and  eyes,  long 
dulled  by  the  violences  done  in  the  name  of  romanti- 
cism, may  need  a  requickening  to  perceive  them. 
So  there  are  modulations  in  Landor's  art — con- 
descensions enough  to  ear  and  eye.  There  are  no 
bursts  of  sound,  it  may  be,  but  there  is  mellifluous 
music  everywhere  and  scarcely  a  sentence  that  is 
not  tuneful.  And  the  monotint  of  many  a  somber 
passage  is  relieved  by  an  exquisite  picture,  clear  in 
outline  as  a  vase-painting  and  delicately  colored  as 
an  aquarelle.  Quite  beyond  any  graphic  art  indeed 
is  Petrarca's  limning  of  "  the  peculiar  and  costly 
decoration  of  our  Tuscan  villas:  the  central  turret, 
round  which  the  kite  perpetually  circles  in  search 
of  pigeons  or  smaller  prey,  borne  onward,  like  the 
Flemish  skater,  by  effortless  will  in  motionless 
progression."  Or  take  this  from  the  only  tedious 
story  that  Chaucer  ever  told: 

Soon  however  that  quarter  of  the  field  began  to  show  its  herb- 
age again  in  larger  spaces  ;  and  at  the  distant  sound  of  the 
French  trumpets,  which  was  shrill,  fitful,  and  tuneless,  the  broken 


Hi  INTRODUCTION. 

ranks  of  the  enemy  near  him  waved  like  a  tatterea  banner  in  the 
wind,  and  melted,  and  disappeared. 

One  thing,  however,  which  Landor  intended  as  an 
amenity  of  his  style  must  be  rated  as  a  serious 
defect.  It  is  a  pity  that  he  did  not  estimate  more 
rightly  his  poor  gift  for  humor.  Purely  as  humor, 
it  is  not  often  acceptable.  As  just  intimated,  he 
puts  a  tale  into  the  mouth  of  Chaucer  which  might 
almost  perturb  the  rest  of  that  gentle  spirit.  And 
the  humor  is  made  inexpressibly  worse  when  it 
descends  to  indelicacy— one  of  the  manifestations  of 
what  Arnold  has  called,  with  less  than  his  usual 
felicity,  "the  provincial  note."  We  remember,  of 
course,  that  he  was  a  child  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
of  an  age  considerably  less  sensitive  than  ours. 
Anil  he  grew  more  scrupulous  as  he  grew  older, 
canceling  here  and  there.  Hut  enough  remains 
to  give  every  sensitive  reader  pain.  When,  for 
example,  Achilles  tells  how  his  father  went  with  the 
brothers  of  Helena  to  hunt  the  boar  in  the  brakes 
of  Kalydon,  and  Helena  responds,  "Horrible 
creatures! — boars  I  mean,"  we  can  but  sympathize 
with  Mr.  dilvin's  desire  to  suppress  the  irrelevant 
exclamation.  Again,  toward  the  end  of  the  conver- 
sation between  Fra  Filippo  I,ippi  and  1'ope  Kugenius 
the  Fourth  then.-  is  a  passage  that  may  well  be 
cpioted  here,  so  typical  is  it  throughout  of  Lan- 
dor's  genius,  in  which  the  proudest  strength  but  too 
often  betrays  some  fatal  weakness. 

/•'/////.'.  In  the  lieantiful  little  town  of  I'mtn,  reposing  in  its 
idleness  .-i^.iin-.t  tin-  hill  that  proh-t  N  it  fnmi  tlic  north,  and  look- 
ing over  fertile  iii'-.i'loux,  souths  .ud  t<>  l'".;i;i'>  C.ij.uio,  westward 


INTRODUCTION.  liii 

toPistoja,  there  is  the  convent  of  Santa  Margarita.  I  was  invited 
by  the  sisters  to  paint  an  altar-piece  for  the  chapel.  A  novice  of 
fifteen,  my  own  sweet  Lucrezia,  came  one  day  alone  to  see  me 
work  at  my  Madonna.  Her  blessed  countenance  had  already 
looked  down  on  every  beholder  lower  by  the  knees.  I  myself, 
who  had  made  her,  could  almost  have  worshiped  her. 

Eugenius.   Not  while  incomplete  ;  no  half-virgin  will  do. 

Filippo.  But  there  knelt  Lucrezia !  there  she  knelt !  first  look- 
ing with  devotion  at  the  Madonna,  then  with  admiring  wonder 
and  grateful  delight  at  the  artist.  Could  so  little  a  heart  be 
divided  ?  Twere  a  pity  !  There  was  enough  for  me  :  there  is 
never  enough  for  the  Madonna.  Resolving  on  a  sudden  that  the 
object  of  my  love  should  be  the  object  of  adoration  to  thousands, 
born  and  unborn,  I  swept  my  brush  across  the  maternal  face,  and 
left  a  blank  in  heaven.  The  little  girl  screamed  :  I  pressed  her 
to  my  bosom. 

No  praise  would  seem  extravagant  for  this  narra- 
tive of  Filippo's,  which  comes  upon  a  jaded  literary 
taste  with  a  pleasure  so  exquisite,  so  intense,  as 
scarcely  to  be  described  but  in  terms  of  pain. 
And  then  to  have  it  marred  by  that  inane  jest! 
Was  there  no  other  way  in  which  Landor  could 
satisfy  his  desire  to  ridicule  the  pope?  It  is  the 
brush  across  the  Madonna's  face.  The  feeling  it 
arouses  is  deeper  than  irritation,  it  is  poignant 
sorrow.  The  pity  of  it !  we  say,  as  when  we  gaze  on 
the  mutilated  Venus  of  Milo.  Only  there  it  is  the 
void,  the  defect,  here  it  is  the  blemish.  Where  so 
much  else  is  perfect  to  the  last  touch,  why  not  all? 
The  artist's  taste  was  never  sure,  even  when  his  art 
was  at  its  highest. 

But  the  nice  adjustment  of  these  conflicting 
claims  becomes  an  endless  and  idle  task.  The 


1  i  V  IN  TROD  UC  TION. 

balance  has  already  been  struck,  and  we  must  con- 
clude as  we  began.  Speaking  of  his  fame,  Landor 
declared,  in  words  which  no  critic  can  refrain  from 
quoting:  "  I  shall  dine  late;  but  the  dining-room 
will  be  well  lighted,  the  guests  few  and  select."  By 
attempting  thus  to  anticipate  the  verdict  of  pos- 
terity, he  only  hampered  and  delayed  that  verdict. 
For  it  has  been  hard  to  treat  dispassionately  one 
who  could  rarely  be  dispassionate,  hard  not  to  be 
either  roused  to  antagonism  or  moved  to  disdain. 
But  a  few  years  suffice  to  remove  such  obstructions, 
and  we  see  clearly  enough  now  that  Landor  was 
right.  Fame  is  at  best  a  foolish  thing,  the  world's 
unhonored  note  for  value  received,  but  we  know 
what  measure  of  it  falls  to  this  man.  Without 
Carlyle's  strenuous  insistence  upon  conduct,  with- 
out Arnold's  anxious  concern  for  truth,  without 
Kuskin's  passionate  worship  of  beauty,  it  was  yet 
his  to  combine  in  some  degree  the  virtues  of  all  and 
to  present  both  precepts  of  wisdom  and  inspiration 
to  noble  life  under  forms  of  imperishable  beauty 
and  power. 


CHRONOLOGY. 

1775.  Landor  born  at  Warwick,  January  30. 

c.  1779.  To  school  at  Knowle. 

c.  1785.  To  Rugby. 

1793-  A  commoner  at  Trinity  College,  Oxford. 

1794-98.  London  and  Wales. 

1799-1808.  Chiefly  at  Bath. 

1808.  With  the  army  in  Spain. 

1811.  Marries    Julia  Thuillier.      At    Llanthony    Abbey, 

Monmouthshire. 
1814.  To  Tours. 
i8l5-35-  In  Italy:  Como,  Pisa,   Pistoia,   Florence   (1821), 

Fiesole  (Villa  Gherardesca,  1829). 
1835-58.  In  England,  chiefly  at  Bath. 
1858-64.  In  Italy  :  Fiesole,  Siena,  Florence  (1859). 
1864.  Died  at  Florence,  September  17. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

1795.   Poems. 

1798.  Gebir  ;  a  Poem  in  Seven  Books. 

1800.   Poems  from  the  Arabic  and  Persian. 

1803.  Gebirus.     [The  Latin  version  of  Gebir]. 

1806.  Simonidca. 

1812.  Count  Julian  :  a  Tragedy. 

1815.   Idyllia    nova    quinque    Ileroum    atque    Heroidum. 

Oxford. 

1820.   Idyllia  Heroica  dccem.     Pisa. 
1824-29.   Imaginary    Conversations   of  Literary   Men    and 

.Statesmen,  etc.     London.      Vols.    i.  and    ii.,    1824; 

second  cd.,  corrected  and  enlarged,  1826.     Vol.  iii., 

iS-jS.     Yols.  iv.  and  v.,  1829. 
1834.  Citation  and   Kxamination  of  William  Shakespeare. 

1836.  I'erielcs  and  Aspasia. 

1837.  The  Pentameron  and  Pentalo^ia. 

1839.  Andrea  of  Hungary  and  Giovanna  of  Naples. 
1841.   Fra  Rupert. 

1847.   Poemata  et  Inscription's. 

1847.  The    Hellenics.      (Translations   of   the  Idyllia  with 

additions.) 
1853.   The  Last  Fruit  olT  an  Old  Tree. 

1858.  Dry  Sticks,  fagoted  by  Walter  Savage  Landor. 

1859.  The  Hellenics,      Knlarvred. 

i8(>3.    Heroic  Idyls,  with  additional  poems. 

1840.  Works.     London,  2  vols. 

iS~(>.  Works  and  Life.  F.d.  by  John  Forster,  London,  8 
vols.  The  prose  works  were  reprinted  1883-88, 
Boston,  7  vuls. 

Ivi 


BIBLIOGRAPHY.  Ivii 

1891-92.  Works.     Ed.  by  C.  G.  Crump.     London,   10  vols. 

Variorum    edition,  with    notes;    text    based    on 

Forster. 
1882.  Selections.     Arr.  and  ed.  by  Sidney  Colvin.    London. 

Selections  have  also  been  edited  by  G.  -S.  Hillard, 
Boston,  1856;  by  Havelock  Ellis,  London,  1886  (Pentam- 
eron,  1889,  Pericles  and  Aspasia,  1890);  by  W.  B.  S. 
Clymer,  Boston,  1898. 


BIOGRAPHY  AND  CRITICISM. 

Walter  Savage  Landor:  a  Biography.  By  John  Forster. 
London,  2  vols.,  1869.  Revised  and  printed  as  vol.  i.  of 
1876  ed.  of  Works  and  Life.  Newed.,  1895.  Authorized, 
full,  frank,  trustworthy,  but  cumbrous  and  often  uncritical. 

Landor.  By  Sidney  Colvin.  English  Men  of  Letters. 
London,  1884.  Condensed,  precise,  discriminating. 

Some  Letters  to  Miss  Mary  ttoyle.     Century,  Feb.,  1888. 

Letters  and  other  Unpublished  Writings  of  Walter 
Savage  Landor.  Ed.  by  Stephen  Wheeler.  London, 
1897.  Contains  a  full  bibliography. 

Letters  of  Walter  Savage  Landor,  Private  and  Public. 
Ed.  by  Stephen  Wheeler.  London,  1899. 

See  also  Landor  in  Ency.  Brit,  by  Mr.  Swinburne,  and 
in  Diet,  of  Nat.  Biog.  by  Mr.  Leslie  Stephen.  Also  Leigh 
Hunt's  Lord  Jlyron  and  /tix  Contemporaries,  1827;  Coun- 
tess of  Blessington's  Idler  in  Italy,  1839;  Home's  Neiu 
Spirit  of  the  Age  (art.  partly  by  Miss  Barrett),  1844; 
Madden's  Lit.  Life  and  Corr.  of  Countess  of  lUessington, 
1855;  Emerson's  English  Trails,  1856;  Kate  Field's  Last 
Days  of  Landor ,  All.  Mo.,  1866;  Crabb  Robinson's  Diary, 
1869;  Chas.  Dickens  in  All  the  Year  Round,  1869;  Mrs. 
E.  Lynn  Linton's  Reminiscences  in  lrraser's,  1870;  Lord 
Houghton's  Monographs,  1873;  The  Landor- lUessington 
Papers  in  Nieoll  and  Wise's  Lilerarv  Anecdotes  of  tiie 
Nineteenth  Century,  London,  1896;  and  An  Open  Letter 
to  R.  llr.  I-'merson,  in  the-  same. 

de  Vere,  Aubrey.  Landor'' s  [\>e/ry.  Essays,  Chiefly  on 
Poetry,  1887. 

jt        Dowden,    Edward.     Studies    in     Literature.      London, 
1892.     A  study  of  Landor's  temperament  and  art. 


BIOGRAPHY  AND  CRITICISM.  lix 

Lowell,  J.  R.  Latest  Literary  Essays.  Article  written 
as  introduction  to  the  Letters  of  Landor  in  the  Century, 
1888. 

Scudder,  Horace  E.  Landor  as  a  Classic.  Men  and 
Letters.  Boston,  1887. 

Stedman,  E.  C.     Victorian  Poets.     Boston,  1875. 

Stephen,  Leslie.  Hours  in  a  Library \  1879.  A  temper- 
ate review  of  the  style  and  motive  of  the  Imaginary  Con- 
versations. 

Swinburne,  A.  C.  Song  for  the  Centenary  of  Walter 
Savage  Landor.  A  dithyrambic  summary  and  eulogy  of 
Lander's  life  and  work. 

Woodberry,  G.  E.  At  I.  Monthly,  vol.  51.  Studies  in 
Letters  and  Life,  Boston,  1890.  The  "  objective  "  charac- 
ter of  Lander's  work  is  given  emphasis. 

See  also  the  critical  introductions  to  the  various  editions 
of  works  and  selections. 


IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 


Hesop  anD  tRbofcope. 

sEsop.  And   so,    our    fellow-slaves   are  given    to 
contention  on  the  score  of  dignity? 

RhodopZ.   I  do  not  believe  they  are  much  addicted 

to   contention;    for,    whenever   the  good    Xanthus 

5  hears    a   signal    of   such    misbehaviour,    he    either 

brings  a  scourge  into  the  midst  of  them,  or  sends 

our  lady  to  scold  them  smartly  for  it. 

sEsop.    Admirable    evidence   against    their    pro- 
pensity! 

10     Rhodopt.  I  will  not  have  you  find    them   out  so, 
nor  laugh  at  them. 

sEsop.   Seeing   that    the    good    Xanthus  and   our 

lady  are  equally  fond  of  thee,  and  always  visit  thee 

both  together,  the   girls,    however  envious,  cannot 

15  well  or  safely  be  arrogant,  but  must  of    necessity 

yield  the  first  place  to  thee. 

Rhodopt.    They    indeed    are    observant     of    the 
kindness  thus  bestowed  upon   me;   yet  they  afflict 
me  by  taunting  me  continually  with  what  I  am  un- 
20  able  to  deny. 

sEsop.    If  it   is    true,    it    ought    little    to    trouble 
thee;  if    untrue,  less.      I   know,  for   I   have   looked 


2  JESOP   AND   RHODOP&. 

into  nothing  else  of  late,  no  evil  can  thy  heart  have 
admitted:  a  sigh  of  thine  before  the  gods  would 
remove  the  heaviest  that  could  fall  on  it.  Pray 
tell  me  what  it  may  be.  Come,  be  courageous;  be 
cheerful!  I  can  easily  pardon  a  smile  if  thou  em-  5 
pleadest  me  of  curiosity. 

RhoJop}.  They  remark  to  me  that  enemies  or 
robbers  took  them  forcibly  from  their  parents  — 
and  that  —  and  that  — 


Likely   enough:    what   then?     Why  desist  10 
from  speaking?  why  cover  thy  face  with  thy  hair 
and  hands?     Rhodope!  Rhodope!  dost  thou  weep, 
moreover? 

R  ho  Jo  ft.   It  is  so  sure! 

sEsop.   Was  the  fault  thine?  15 

RhoJopc.   ()  that  it  were!  —  if  there  was  any. 

sEsop.  While  it  pains  thee  to  tell  it,  keep  thy 
silence;  but  when  utterance  is  a  solace,  then  im- 
part it. 

RhoJopc.   They   remind  me  (oh!   who  could  have  20 
had  the  cruelty  to  relate  it)  that  my  father,  my  own 
dear  father  — 

sl'.sop.  Say  not  the  rest:  I  know  it:  his  day  has 
come. 

RhoJop?.   —  sold  me,  sold  me.      You  start:  you  did  25 
not    at  the   lightning  last    night,  nor   at   the  rolling 
sounds   above.      And    do    you,  generous    yKsop!    do 
you  also  call  a  misfortune  a  disgrace? 

*-Esop.  If  it  is,  I  am  among  the  most  disgraceful 
of  men.  Didst  thou  dearly  love  thy  father?  3° 

J\/ii>Ji>pt'.  All  loved  him.  He  was  very  fond  of 
me. 


&SOP  AND  RHODOP&.  3 

.  And  yet  sold  thee !  sold  thee  to  a  stranger! 
Rhodopt.  He  was  the  kindest  of  all  kind  fathers, 
nevertheless.     Nine  summers  ago,   you   may  have 
heard  perhaps,  there  was  a  grievous  famine  in  our 
5  land  of  Thrace. 

jfcsop.  I  remember  it  perfectly. 
Rhodopt.  O  poor  ^Esop!  and  were  you  too  fam- 
ishing in  your  native  Phrygia? 

jfcsop.  The  calamity  extended  beyond  the  narrow 
10  sea  that  separates  our  countries.      My  appetite  was 
sharpened;  but    the    appetite    and   the    wits    are 
equally  set  on  the  same  grindstone. 

Rhodopt.  I  was  then  scarcely  five  years  old;  my 
mother  died  the  year  before:  my  father  sighed  at 
15  every  funeral,  but  he  sighed  more  deeply   at  every 
bridal,  song.     He  loved  me  because  he    loved  her 
who  bore  me:  and  yet  I  made  him  sorrowful  whether 
I  cried  or  smiled.     If  ever  I  vexed  him,  it  was  be- 
cause   I   would    not    play   when    he    told    me,  but 
20  made  him,  by  my  weeping,  weep  again. 

sEsop.  And  yet  he  could  endure  to  lose  thee!  he, 
thy  father!  Could  any  other?  could  any  who  lives 
on  the  fruits  of  the  earth,  endure  it?  O  age,  that 
art  incumbent  over  me!  blessed  be  thou;  thrice 
25  blessed!  Not  that  thou  stillest  the  tumults  of  the 
heart,  and  promisest  eternal  calm,  but  that,  pre- 
vented by  thy  beneficence,  I  never  shall  experience 
this  only  intolerable  wretchedness. 

Rhodopc.   Alas!  alas! 

30     sEsop.    Thou    art   now   happy,    and   shouldst    not 
utter  that  useless  exclamation. 

Rhodop'i'.  You   said  something  angrily  and   vehe- 


4  ^ESOP  AND  RHODOP&. 

mently  when  you  stepped  aside.  Is  it  not  enough 
that  the  handmaidens  doubt  the  kindness  of  my 
father?  Must  so  virtuous  and  so  wise  a  man  as 
yKsop  blame  him  also? 

sEsop.   Perhaps  he  is  little  to  be  blamed;  certainly   5 
he  is  much  to  be  pitied. 

Rhodop'e.   Kind  heart!  on  which  mine  must  never 
rest! 

ALsop.   Rest   on  it  for   comfort   and   for  counsel 
when   they  fail  thee:   rest  on   it,  as  the  deities  on  10 
the  breast  of  mortals,  to  console  and  purify  it. 

Rhodopi.  Could  I   remove  any   sorrow   from  it,  I 
should  be  contented. 

sEsop.  Then  be   so;    and  proceed   in   thy    narra- 
tive. 15 

Rhodope.  Bear  with  me  a  little  yet.  My  thoughts 
have  overpowered  my  words,  and  now  themselves 
are  overpowered  and  scattered.  Forty-seven  days 
ago  (this  is  only  the  forty-eighth  since  I  beheld  you 
first)  I  was  a  child;  I  was  ignorant,  I  was  care- 20 
less. 

sEsop.    If  these  qualities  are   signs   of   childhood, 
the  universe  is  a  nursery. 

Rhodop'e.     Affliction,    which    makes    many     wiser, 
had  no  such  effect  on  me.      Hut  reverence  and   love  25 
(why  should  I  hesitate  at  the  one  avowal  more  than 
at  the  other?)   came  over    me,  to   ripen    my    under- 
standing. 

sEsop.   O    Rhodope!    we    must    loiter    no    longer 
upon  this  discourse.  3° 

Rhodope.    Why  not? 

sEsop.    Pleasant    is  yonder    beanfield,    seen   over 


jESOP   AND  RHODOP&.  5 

the  high  papyrus  when  it  waves  and  bends:  deep 
laden  with  the  sweet  heaviness  of  its  odour  is  the 
listless  air  that  palpitates  dizzily  above  it;  but 
Death  is  lurking  for  the  slumberer  beneath  its 
5  blossoms. 

Rhodopt.    You    must   not   love  then!  —  but   may 
not  I? 

We  will,—  but  - 


Rhodopt.    We  !  O  sound  that  is  to  vibrate   on   my 
10  breast  for  ever!      O   hour,    happier  than  all  other 
hours   since    time   began!    O  gracious    gods!    who 
brought  me  into  bondage! 

ALsop.  Be  calm,  be  composed,  be  circumspect. 
We  must  hide  our  treasure  that  we  may  not  lose  it. 
15  Rhodope.  I  do  not  think  that  you  can  love  me;  and 
I  fear  and  tremble  to  hope  so.  Ah,  yes;  you  have 
said  you  did.  But  again  you  only  look  at  me,  and 
sigh  as  if  you  repented. 

sEsop.   Unworthy  as  I  may  be  of  thy  fond  regard, 
aolamnot  unworthy  of  thy  fullest  confidence:  why 
distrust  me? 

Rhodop^.  Never  will  I!  —  never,  never!  To  know 
that  I  possess  your  love  surpasses  all  other  knowl- 
edge, dear  as  is  all  that  I  receive  from  you.  I 
25  should  be  tired  of  my  own  voice  if  I  heard  it  on 
aught  beside:  and  even  yours  is  less  melodious 
in  any  other  sound  than  Rhodopt. 

sEsop.   Do  such  little  girls  learn  to  flatter? 
Rhodopt.    Teach    me    how    to    speak,    since    you 
3o  could  not  teach  me  how  to  be  silent. 

sEsop.   Speak    no   longer   of  me,    but   of   thyself; 
and  only  of  things  that  never  pain  thee. 


6  & SOP   A.VD   RIIODOP&. 

Rhodopt.    Nothing  can  pain  me  now. 

.-Esop.   Relate  thy  story  then,  from  infancy. 

Rhodopt.  I  must  hold  your  hand:  I  am  afraid  of 
losing  you  again. 

sEsop.    Now  begin.     Why  silent  so  long?  5 

Rhodopl:.  I  have  dropped  all  memory  of  what  is 
told  by  me  and  what  is  untold. 

sEsop.  Recollect  a  little.  I  can  be  patient  with 
this  hand  in  mine. 

Rhodope.    I  am  not  certain  that  yours  is  any   help  10 
to  recollection. 

.-Es(>p.   Shall  I  remove  it? 

Rhodopf.  O!  now  I  think  I  can  recall  the  whole 
story.  What  did  you  say?  did  you  ask  any  ques- 
tion? 15 

.  A'.w>/>.    None,  excepting  what  them  hast  answered. 

Rluhiope.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  morning  when 
my  father,  sitting  in  the  coolest  part  of  the  house, 
exchanged  his  last  measure  of  grain  for  a  chlamys 
of  scarlet  cloth  fringed  with  silver.  He  watched  20 
the  merchant  out  of  the  door,  and  then  looked 
wistfully  into  the  corn-chest.  I,  who  thought 
there  was  something  worth  seeing,  looked  in  also, 
and,  finding  it  empty,  expressed  my  disappoint- 
ment, not  thinking,  however,  a!>out  the  corn.  \  25 
faint  and  transient  smile  came  over  his  countenance 
at  the  sight  of  mine.  He  unfolded  the  chlamys, 
stretched  it  out  with  both  hands  before  me,  and 
then  cast  it  over  my  shoulders.  1  looked  down  on 
the  glittering  fringe  and  s<  reamed  with  joy.  He  30 
then  went  out;  and  1  know  not  what  flowers  lie 
gathered,  but  he  gathered  many;  and  some  he 


JESOP  AND  RHODOP&.  ^ 

placed  in  my  bosom,  and  some  in  my  hair.  But  I 
told  him  with  captious  pride,  first  that  I  could 
arrange  them  better,  and  again  that  I  would  have 
only  the  white.  However,  when  he  had  selected  all 
5  the  white,  and  I  had  placed  a  few  of  them  accord- 
ing to  my  fancy,  I  told  him  (rising  in  my  slipper) 
he  might  crown  me  with  the  remainder.  The  splen- 
dour of  my  apparel  gave  me  a  sensation  of  author- 
ity. Soon  as  the  flowers  had  taken  their  station 

10  on  my  head,  I  expressed  a  dignified  satisfaction  at 
the  taste  displayed  by  my  father,  just  as  if  I  could 
have  seen  how  they  appeared!  But  he  knew  that 
there  was  at  least  as  much  pleasure  as  pride  in  it, 
and  perhaps  we  divided  the  latter  (alas!  not  both) 

15  pretty  equally.  He  now  took  me  into  the  market- 
place, where  a  concourse  of  people  was  waiting 
for  the  purchase  of  slaves.  Merchants  came  and 
looked  at  me;  some  commending,  others  disparag- 
ing; but  all  agreeing  that  I  was  slender  and 

20 delicate,  that  I  could  not  live  long,  and  that  I 
should  give  much  trouble.  Many  would  have 
bought  the  chlamys,  but  there  was  something  less 
salable  in  the  child  and  flowers. 

sEsop.   Plad    thy    features    been    coarse  and    thy 

25  voice  rustic,  they  would  all  have  patted  thy  cheeks 
and  found  no  fault  in  thee. 

Rhodopt.  As  it  was,  every  one  had  bought  ex- 
actly such  another  in  time  past,  and  been  a  loser  by 
it.  At  these  speeches  I  perceived  the  flowers  trem- 

30  ble  slightly  on  my  bosom,  from  my  father's  agitation. 
Although  he  scoffed  at  them,  knowing  my  healthi- 
ness, he  was  troubled  internally,  and  said  many 


8  ^ESOP  AND   RIlODOPk. 

short  prayers,  not  very  unlike  imprecations,  turning 
his  head  aside.  Proud  was  I,  prouder  than  ever, 
when  at  last  several  talents  were  offered  for  me, 
and  by  the  very  man  who  in  the  beginning  had  un- 
dervalued me  the  most,  and  prophesied  the  worst  5 
of  me.  My  father  scowled  at  him,  and  refused  the 
money.  I  thought  he  was  playing  a  game,  and 
began  to  wonder  what  it  could  be,  since  I  never  had 
seen  it  played  before.  Then  I  fancied  it  might  be 
some  celebration  because  plenty  had  returned  to  10 
the  city,  insomuch  that  my  father  had  bartered  the 
last  of  the  corn  he  hoarded.  I  grew  more  and  more 
delighted  at  the  sport.  IJut  soon  there  advanced 
an  elderly  man,  who  said  gravely,  "Thou  hast 
stolen  this  child:  her  vesture  alone  is  worth  above  15 
a  hundred  drachmas.  Carry  her  home  again  to  her 
Barents,  and  do  it  directly,  or  Nemesis  and  the 
Eumenides  will  overtake  thee."  Knowing  the  esti- 
mation in  which  my  father  had  always  been  holden 
by  his  fellow-citizens,  I  laughed  again,  and  pinched  20 
his  ear.  He,  although  naturally  choleric,  burst 
forth  into  no  resentment  at  these  reproaches,  but 
said  calmly,  "  I  think  I  know  thee  by  name,  O 
guest!  Surely  tiiou  art  Xanthus  the  Samian.  De- 
liver this  child  from  famine."  25 

Again  I  laughed  aloud  and  heartily;  and  thinking 
it  was  now  my  part  of  the  game,  I  held  out  both  my 
arms  and  protruded  my  whole  body  toward  the 
stranger.  He  would  not  receive  me  from  my 
father's  neck,  but  he  asked  me  with  benignity  and  30 
solicitude  if  I  was  hungry;  at  which  1  laughed 
again,  and  more  than  ever:  for  it  was  early  in  the 


JESOP  AND  RHODOPh.  9 

morning,  soon  after  the  first  meal,  and  my  father 
had  nourished  me  most  carefully  and  plentifully  in 
all  the  days  of  the  famine.  But  Xanthus,  waiting 
for  no  answer,  took  out  of  a  sack,  which  one  of  his 
5  slaves  carried  at  his  side,  a  cake  of  wheaten  bread 
and  a  piece  of  honey-comb,  and  gave  them  to  me. 
I  held  the  honey-comb  to  my  father's  mouth,  think- 
ing it  the  most  of  a  dainty.  He  dashed  it  to  the 
ground;  but,  seizing  the  bread,  he  began  to  devour 

10 it  ferociously.  This  also  I  thought  was  in  play; 
and  I  clapped  my  hands  at  his  distortions.  But 
Xanthus  looked  on  him  like  one  afraid,  and  smote 
the  cake  from  him,  crying  aloud,  "  Name  the  price." 
My  father  now  placed  me  in  his  arms,  naming  a 

15  price  much  below  what  the  other  had  offered,  say- 
ing, "The  gods  are  ever  with  thee,  O  Xanthus! 
therefore  to  thee  do  I  consign  my  child."  But 
while  Xanthus  was  counting  out  the  silver,  my 
father  seized  the  cake  again,  which  the  slave  had 

20 taken  up  and  was  about  to  replace  in  the  wallet. 
His  hunger  was  exasperated  by  the  taste  and  the  de- 
lay. Suddenly  there  arose  much  tumult.  Turning 
round  in  the  old  woman's  bosom  who  had  received 
me  from  Xanthus,  I  saw  my  beloved  father  strug- 

25gling  on  the  ground,  livid  and  speechless.  The 
more  violent  my  cries,  the  more  rapidly  they  hurried 
me  away;  and  many  were  soon  between  us.  Little 
was  I  suspicious  that  he  had  suffered  the  pangs  of 
famine  long  before:  alas!  and  he  had  suffered  them 

30  for  me.  Do  I  weep  while  I  am  telling  you  they 
ended?  I  could  not  have  closed  his  eyes;  I  was  too 
young:  but  I  might  have  received  his  last  breath, 


10  MSOP   AND   RHODOP&. 

the  only  comfort  of  an  orphan's  bosom.      Do   you 
now  think  him  blunuible,  ()  .Ksop? 

.-Esop.    It  was  sublime  humanity:  it  was  forbear- 
ance and  self-denial  which  even  the  immortal  gods 
have  never  shown  us.      He  could  endure  to  perish    5 
by  those  torments  which  alone  are  both  acute  and 
slow;  he  could  number  the  steps  of  death  and   miss 
not  one:  but  he  could  never  see  thy  tears,  nor  let 
thee    see    his.       ()    weakness    above    all     fortitude! 
(ilory  to  the  man  win;  rather  bears  a  grief  corroding  10 
his  breast,  than  permits  it  to  prowl  beyond,  and  to 
prey  on    the    tender   and   compassionate!      Women 
commiserate  the  brave,  and  men  the  beautiful.     The 
dominion  of  1'ity  has  usually  this  extent,  no  wider. 
Thy  father  was  exposed  to  the  obloquy  not  only  of  15 
the  malicious,  but  also  of  the  ignorant  and  thought- 
less, who  condemn  in  the  unfortunate  what  they  ap- 
plaud  in   the  prosperous.     There   is    no    shame    in 
poverty  or  in  slavery,  if  we  neither  make  ourselves 
poor  by  our  improvidence  nor  slaves  by  our  venality.  20 
The   lowest  and    highest    of    the    human    race  are 
sold :  most  of  the  intermediate  are  also  slaves,  but 
slaves  who  bring  no  money  in  the  market. 

Rhodope.    Surely  the  great  and  powerful  are  never 
to  be  purchased,  are  they?  25 

sEsop.  It  may  be  a  defect  in  my  vision,  but  I 
cannot  see  greatness  on  the  earth.  What  they  tell 
me  is  great  and  aspiring,  to  me  seems  little  and 
crawling.  Let  me  inert  thy  question  with  another. 
What  monarch  gives  his  daughter  for  nothing?  30 
Kither  he  receives  stone  walls  and  unwilling  cities  in 
return,  or  he  barters  her  for  a  parcel  of  spears  and 


JSSOP  AND  RHODOP&.  II 

horses  and  horsemen,  waving  away  from  his  declin- 
ing and  helpless  age  young  joyous  life,  and  tramp- 
ling down  the  freshest  and  the  sweetest  memories. 
Midas  in  the  height  of  prosperity  would  have  given 
5  his  daughter  to  Lycaon,  rather  than  to  the  gentlest, 
the  most  virtuous,  the  most  intelligent  of  his  sub- 
jects. Thy  father  threw  wealth  aside,  and  placing 
thee  under  the  protection  of  Virtue,  rose  up  from 
the  house  of  Famine  to  partake  in  the  festivals  of 

10  the  gods. 

Release  my  neck,  O  Rhodope  !  for  I  have  other 
questions  to  ask  of  thee  about  him. 

Rhodop^.  To  hear  thee  converse  on  him  in  such 
a  manner  I  can  do  even  that.          • 

15  sEsop.  Before  the  day  of  separation  was  he  never 
sorrowful?  Did  he  never  by  tears  or  silence  reveal 
the  secret  of  his  soul? 

Rhodop^.   I  was  too  infantine  to  perceive  or  im- 
agine his  intention.     The  night  before  I  became  the 

20  slave  of  Xanthus,  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  my  bed.  I 
pretended  to  be  asleep:  he  moved  away  silently  and 
softly.  I  saw  him  collect  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand 
the  crumbs  I  had  wasted  on  the  floor,  and  then  eat 
them,  and  then  look  if  any  were  remaining.  I 

25  thought  he  did  so  out  of  fondness  for  me,  remem- 
bering that,  even  before  the  famine,  he  had  often 
swept  up  off  the  table  the  bread  I  had  broken,  and 
had  made  me  put  it  between  his  lips.  I  would  not 
dissemble  very  long,  but  said, — 

3°      "  Come,  now   you    have   wakened    me,  you    must 

sing  me  asleep  again,  as  you  did  when  I  was  little." 

He  smiled  faintly  at  this,  and,  after  some  delay, 


12  &SOP  AND  RHODOP&. 

when  he  had  walked  up  and  down  the  chamber,  thus 
began: — 

"I  will  sing  to  thee  one  song  more,  my  wakeful 
Rhodope!    my    chirping    bird!    over   whom     is    no 
mother's   wing!     That  it  may    lull    thee   asleep,    I   5 
will  celebrate  no  longer,  as  in  the  days  of  wine  and 
plenteousness,  the  glory  of  Mars,  guiding  in  their 
invisibly  rapid  onset  the  dappled  steeds  of  Rhresus. 
What  hast  thou  to  do,  my   little  one,  with  arrows 
tired    of    clustering    in    the    quiver?      How    much  10 
quieter  is  thy  pallet  than  the  tents  which  whitened 
the    plain    of   Simois!     What    knowest  thou   about 
the  river  Eurotas?     What  knowest  thou  about  its 
ancient  palace,  once   trodden  by  assembled  gods, 
and  then  polluted  by  the  Phrygian?     What  knowest  15 
thou  of  perfidious  men  or  of  sanguinary  deeds? 

"Pardon  me,  O  goddess  who  presides!  in  Cy- 
thera!  I  am  not  irreverent  to  thee,  but  ever  grate- 
ful. May  she  upon  whose  brow  I  lay  my  hand 
praise  and  bless  thee  for  evermore!  20 

"  Ah,  yes!  continue  to  hold  up  above  the  cover- 
let those  fresh  and  rosy  palms  clasped  together:  her 
benefits  have  descended  on  thy  beauteous  head,  my 
child!  The  Fates  also  have  sung,  beyond  thy  hear- 
ing, of  pleasanter  scenes  than  snow-fed  Hebrus;  of  25 
more  than  dim  grottoes  and  sky-bright  waters. 
Even  now  a  low  murmur  swells  upward  to  my  ear: 
and  not  from  the  spindle  comes  the  sound,  but 
from  those  who  sing  slowly  over  it,  bending  all 
three  their  tremulous  heads  together.  I  wish  thou  yc. 
couldst  hear  it;  for  seldom  are  their  voices  so  sweet. 
Thy  pillow  intercepts  the  song  perhaps:  lie  down 


&SOP  AND  RHODOP&.  13 

again,  lie  down,  my  Rhodope!     I  will  repeat  what 
they  are  saying: — 

"  '  Happier  shalt  thou  be,  nor  less  glorious,  than 
even  she,  the  truly  beloved,  for  whose  return  to  the 
5  distaff  and  the  lyre  the  portals  of  Taenarus  flew  open. 
In  the  woody  dells  of  Ismarus,  and  when  she  bathed 
among  the  swans  of  Strymon,  the  nymphs  called 
her  Eurydice.  Thou  shalt  behold  that  fairest  and 
that  fondest  one  hereafter.  But  first  thou  must 

logo  into  the  land  of  the  lotos,  where  famine  never 
cometh,  and  where  alone  the  works  of  man  are 
immortal.' 

"  O  my  child!  the  undeceiving  Fates  have  uttered 
this.     Other   powers    have    visited    me,    and    have 

15  strengthened  my  heart  with  dreams  and  visions. 
We  shall  meet  again,  my  Rhodope!  in  shady  groves 
and  verdant  meadows,  and  we  shall  sit  by  the  side 
of  those  who  loved  us." 

He  was  rising:  I  threw  my  arms  about  his  neck, 

20  and,  before  I  would  let  him  go,  I  made  him  promise 
to  place  me,  not  by  the  side,  but  between  them;  for 
I  thought  of  her  who  had  left  us.  At  that  time 
there  were  but  two,  O  ^Esop! 

You  ponder:  you  are  about  to  reprove  my  assur- 

25  ance  in  having  thus  repeated  my  own  praises.  I 
would  have  omitted  some  of  the  words,  only  that  it 
might  have  disturbed  the  measure  and  cadences, 
and  have  put  me  out.  They  are  the  very  words  my 
dearest  father  sang;  and  they  are  the  last.  Yet, 

30 shame  upon  me!  the  nurse  (the  same  who  stood  lis- 
tening near,  who  attended  me  into  this  country) 
could  remember  them  more  perfectly:  it  is  from 


14  JESOP  AND  RHODOP&. 

her  I   have    learned    them    since;  she   often    sings 
them,  even  by  herself. 

-Esop.  So  shall  others.  There  is  much  both  in 
them  and  in  thee  to  render  them  memorable. 

Rhodopt.   Who  flatters  now?  5 

sEsop.  Flattery  often  runs  beyond  Truth,  in  a 
hurry  to  embrace  her;  but  not  here.  The  dullest 
of  mortals,  seeing  and  hearing  thee,  could  never 
misinterpret  the  prophecy  of  the  Fates. 

If,  turning   back,  I  could    overpass    the    vale    of  10 
years,   and   could  stand  on  the  mountain-top,   and 
could  look  again  far  before  me  at  the  bright  ascend- 
ing morn,  we  would    enjoy  the  prospect  together; 
we  would  walk  along  the  summit  hand  in  hand,  O 
Rhodope!  and  we  would  only  sigh  at  last  when  we  15 
found  ourselves  below  with  others. 


flDarcellus  anfc  Ibannibal. 

Hannibal.  Could  a  Numidian  horseman  ride  no 
faster?  Marcellus!  ho!  Marcellus!  He  moves  not 
— he  is  dead.  Did  he  not  stir  his  fingers?  Stand 
wide,  soldiers — wide,  forty  paces — give  him  air — 
5  bring  water — halt!  Gather  those  broad  leaves,  and 
all  the  rest,  growing  under  the  brushwood — unbrace 
his  armour.  Loose  the  helmet  first — his  breast  rises. 
I  fancied  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  me — they  have  rolled 
back  again.  Who  presumed  to  touch  my  shoulder? 

10  This  horse?  It  was  surely  the  horse  of  Marcellus! 
Let  no  man  mount  him.  Ha!  ha!  the  Romans,  too, 
sink  into  luxury:  here  is  gold  about  the  charger. 

Gaulish  Chieftain.  Execrable  thief!  The  golden 
chain  of  our  king  under  a  beast's  grinders!  The  ven- 

15  geance  of  the  gods  hath  overtaken  the  impure — 

Hannibal.  We  will  talk  about  vengeance  when  we 
have  entered  Rome,  and  about  purity  among  the 
priests,  if  they  will  hear  us.  Sound  for  the  surgeon. 
That  arrow  may  be  extracted  from  the  side,  deep 

20  as  it  is. — The  conqueror  of  Syracuse  lies  before  me. 
— Send  a  vessel  off  to  Carthage.  Say  Hannibal  is 
at  the  gates  of  Rome. — Marcellus,  who  stood  alone 
between  us,  fallen.  Brave  man!  I  would  rejoice 
and  cannot. — How  awfully  serene  a  countenance! 

25  Such  as  we  hear  are  in  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed. 
And  how  glorious  a  form  and  stature!  Such  too 


16  MARCELLUS  AND   HANNIBAL. 

was  theirs!  They  also  once  lay  thus  upon  the  earth 
wet  with  their  blood — few  other  enter  there.  And 
what  plain  armour! 

Gaulish  Chieftain.   My  party  slew  him — indeed   I 
think   I  slew  him  myself.      I  claim  the  chain:  it  be-   5 
longs  to  my  king;   the   glory  of   Gaul  requires  it. 
Never  will  she  endure  to  see  another  take  it:  rather 
would  she  lose  her  last  man.      We  swear!   we  swear! 

Hannibal.    My  friend,  the  glory  of  Marcel  1  us  did 
not  require  him  to  wear  it.     When  he  suspended  the  10 
arms  of  your  brave  king  in  the  temple,  he  thought 
such  a  trinket  unworthy  of  himself  and  of  Jupiter. 
The  shield  he  battered  down,   the  breast  plate  he 
pierced    with    his  sword — these  he  showed  to   the 
people  and  to  the  gods;  hardly  his  wife  and  little  15 
children  saw  this,  ere  his  horse  wore  it. 

Gaulish  Chieftain.    Hear  me,  O  Hannibal! 

Hannibal.   What!  when  Marcellus  lies  before  me? 
when  his  life  may  perhaps  be  recalled?  when  I  may 
lead  him  in  triumph  to  Carthage?  when  Italy,  Sicily,  20 
Greece,   Asia,   wait  to  obey  me?    Content  thee!    I 
will  give  thee  mine  own  bridle,  worth  ten  such. 

Gaulish  Chi ff tain.    For  myself? 

Hannibal.    For  thyself. 

Gaulish  Chieftain.     And  these  rubies  and  emeralds,  25 
and  that  scarlet— 

Hannibal.    Yes,  yes. 

Gaulish  Chieftain.   O    glorious   Hannibal!    uncon- 
querable hero!     O  my  happy  country!  to  have  such 
an  ally  and  defender.      I  swear  eternal  gratitude — 30 
yes,  gratitude,  love,  devotion,  beyond  eternity. 

Hannibal.   In  all  treaties  we  fix  the  time:  I  could 


MARCELLUS  AND  HANNIBAL.  17 

hardly  ask  a  longer.  Go  back  to  thy  station. — I 
would  see  what  the  surgeon  is  about,  and  hear  what 
he  thinks.  The  life  of  Marcellus!  the  triumph  of 
Hannibal!  what  else  has  the  world  in  it?  Only 
5  Rome  and  Carthage:  these  follow. 

Surgeon.   Hardly  an  hour  of  life  is  left. 

Marcellus.   I  must  die  then !     The  gods  be  praised! 
The  commander  of  a  Roman  army  is  no  captive. 

Hannibal  (to  the   Surgeon).  Could  not  he  bear  a 
10  sea-voyage?     Extract  the  arrow. 

Surgeon.   He  expires  that  moment. 

Marcellus.   It  pains  me:  extract  it. 

Hannibal.   Marcellus,  I  see  no  expression  of  pain  on 
your  countenance,  and  never  will  I  consent  to  hasten 
15  the  death  of  an  enemy  in  my  power.     Since  your  re- 
covery is  hopeless,  you  say  truly  you  are  no  captive. 

(To  the  Surgeon.}  Is  there  nothing,  man,  that  can 
assuage  the  mortal  pain?  for,  suppress  the  signs  of 
it  as  he  may,  he  must  feel  it.     Is  there  nothing  to 
20  alleviate  and  allay  it? 

Marcel/us.   Hannibal,    give   me    thy   hand — thou 
hast  found  it  and  brought  it  me,  compassion. 

(To  the  Surgeon.)  Go,    friend;    others  want   thy 
aid;  several  fell  around  me. 

25  Hannibal.  Recommend  to  your  country,  O  Mar- 
cellus, while  time  permits  it,  reconciliation  and 
peace  with  me,  informing  the  Senate  of  my  supe- 
riority in  force,  and  the  impossibility  of  resistance. 
The  tablet  is  ready:  let  me  take  off  this  ring — try 
30  to  write,  to  sign  it  at  least.  Oh,  what  satisfaction 
I  feel  at  seeing  you  able  to  rest  upon  the  elbow,  and 
even  to  smile! 


1 8  AtARCKI.I.rS  AND    HANN/ltAf.. 

Marcfllus.  Within  an  hour  or  less,  with  how 
severe  a  brow  would  Minos  say  to  me,  "  Marcellus, 
is  this  thy  writing?  " 

Rome  loses  one  man:  she  hath  lost  many  such, 
and  she  still  hath  many  left.  5 

Hannibal.  Afraid  as  you  are  of  falsehood,  say  you 
this?  I  confess  in  shame  the  ferocity  of  my  coun- 
trymen. Unfortunately,  too,  the  nearer  posts  are 
occupied  by  Gauls,  infinitely  more  cruel.  The 
Numidians  are  so  in  revenge;  the  Gauls  both  in  10 
revenge  and  in  sport.  My  presence  is  required  at 
a  distance,  and  I  apprehend  the  barbarity  of  one  or 
other,  learning,  as  they  must  do,  your  refusal  to 
execute  my  wishes  for  the  common  good,  and  feel- 
ing that  by  this  refusal  you  deprive  them  of  their  15 
country,  after  so  long  an  absence. 

Marcellns.    Hannibal,  thou  art  not  dying. 

Hannibal.    What  then?     What   mean  you? 

Marcellns.  That  thou  mayest,  and  very  justly, 
have  many  things  yet  to  apprehend:  I  can  have  20 
none.  The  barbarity  of  thy  soldiers  is  nothing  to 
me:  mine  would  not  dare  be  cruel.  Hannibal  is 
forced  to  be  absent;  and  his  authority  goes  away 
with  his  horse.  On  this  turf  lies  defaced  the 
semblance  of  a  general;  but  Marcellus  is  yet  the  25 
regulator  of  his  army.  Dost  thou  abdicate  a  power 
conferred  on  tliee  by  thy  nation-1  Or  wouldst  thou 
acknowledge  it  to  have  become,  by  thy  own  sole 
fault,  less  plenary  than  thy  adversary's? 

I  have  spoken  too  much :   let  me  rest;   this  mantle  30 
oppresses  me. 

Hannibal.    1  placed  mv  mantle  on  your  head  when 


MARCELLUS  AND  HANNIBAL.  19 

the  helmet  was  first  removed,  and  while  you  were 
lying  in  the  sun.  Let  me  fold  it  under,  and  then 
replace  the  ring. 

Marcellus.   Take  it,  Hannibal.     It  was  given  me 
5  by  a  poor  woman  who   flew  to  me  at  Syracuse,  and 
who  covered  it  with  her  hair,  torn  off  in  desperation 
that  she  had  no  other  gift  to  offer.     Little  thought 
I  that  her  gift  and  her  words  should  be  mine.     How 
suddenly  may  the  most  powerful  be  in  the  situation 
10 of  the  most  helpless!     Let  that  ring  and  the  mantle 
under  my  head  be  the  exchange  of  guests  at  parting. 
The  time  may  come,  Hannibal,  when  thou  (and  the 
gods   alone   know   whether   as   conqueror   or  con- 
quered) mayest  sit   under  the  roof  of  my  children, 
15  and    in    either  case    it    shall   serve   thee.     In    thy 
adverse    fortune,    they   will    remember    on    whose 
pillow  their  father  breathed  his  last;  in   thy  pros- 
perous (Heaven  grant   it   may  shine  upon   thee  in 
some  other  country!)  it  will  rejoice  thee  to  protect 
20  them.     We  feel    ourselves  the    most    exempt  from 
affliction  when  we  relieve  it,  although  we  are  then 
the  most  conscious  that  it  may  befall  us. 

There  is  one  thing  here  which   is  not  at  the  dis- 
posal of  either. 
25      Hannibal.   What? 

Marcellus.   This  body. 

Hannibal.   Whither   would    you   be    lifted?     Men 
are  ready. 

Marcellus.   I  meant  not  so.      My  strength  is  fail- 
So  ing.      I    seem    to  hear    rather  what    is  within  than 
what  is  without.      My  sight    and  my    other  senses 
are  in  confusion.     I  would    have  said — This  body, 


20  M. ,4  A' CELL  US  A. YD   II A XXI B A L. 

when  a  few  bubbles  of  air  shall  have  left  it,  is  no 
more  worthy  of  thy  notice  than  of  mine;  but  thy 
glory  will  not  let  thce  refuse  it  to  the  piety  of  my 
family. 

Hannibal.  You  would  ask  something  else.      I  per-   5 
ceive  an  inquietude  not  visible  till  now. 

Mareellus.   Duty   and    Death    make    us    think    of 
home  sometimes. 

Hannibal.  Thitherward  the  thoughts  of  the  con- 
queror and  of  the  conquered  fly  together.  10 

Mareellus.   Hast    thou    any    prisoners     from   my 
escort? 

Hannibal.   A  few   dying   lie   about — and   let  them 
lie — they  are  Tuscans.     The  remainder  I  saw  at  a 
distance,    flying,    and    but    one  brave    man    among  15 
them — he  appeared   a  Roman — a  youth  who  turned 
back,    though     wounded.       They    surrounded    and 
dragged   him  away,    spurring    his   horse  with  their 
swords.      These   Etrurians    measure   their  courage 
carefully,  and  tack  it  well  together  before  they  put  20 
it  on,  but  throw  it  off  again  with  lordly  ease. 

Mareellus,  why  think  about  them?  or  does  aught 
else  disquiet  your  thoughts? 

Mareellus.    I    have    suppressed     it    long    enough. 
My  son  —  my  beloved  son!  25 

Jf^nnibal.    Where  is  he?     Can  it  be?     Was  he  with 
you? 

Mareellus.    He   would    have   shared    my  fate — and 
has  not.      (iods  of  mycountrv!  beneficent  through- 
out life   to    me,  in    drath    surpassingly  beneficent :   130 
render  you,  for  the  last  time,  thanks. 


IP.  Scipio  Hemilfanus,  polsbius,  panaztius. 

Scipio,  Polybius,  if  you  have  found  me  slow  in 
rising  to  you,  if  I  lifted  not  up  my  eyes  to  salute 
you  on  your  entrance,  do  not  hold  me  ungrateful. 
Proud  there  is  no  danger  that  you  will  ever  call  me: 
5  this  day  of  all  days  would  least  make  me  so;  it 
shows  me  the  power  of  the  immortal  gods,  the 
mutability  of  fortune,  the  instability  of  empire, 
the  feebleness,  the  nothingness  of  man.  The 
earth  stands  motionless;  the  grass  upon  it  bends 
10  and  returns,  the  same  to-day  as  yesterday,  the 
same  in  this  age  as  in  a  hundred  past;  the  sky 
darkens  and  is  serene  again;  the  clouds  melt  away, 
but  they  are  clouds  another  time,  and  float  like 
triumphal  pageants  along  the  heavens.  Carthage 
15  is  fallen,  to  rise  no  more!  The  funereal  horns 
have  this  hour  announced  to  us  that,  after  eight- 
een days  and  eighteen  nights  of  conflagration,  her 
last  embers  are  extinguished. 

Polybius.   Perhaps,  O  ^Emilianus,  I  ought  not  to 
20 have  come  in. 

Scipio.  Welcome,  my  friend. 

Polybius.   While  you  were  speaking,   I  would   by 
no  means  interrupt  you  so  idly  as  to  ask   you   to 
whom  you  have  been  proud,  or  to  whom  could  you 
25  be  ungrateful? 

Scipio.   To  him,  if  to  any, whose  hand  is  in  mine;  to 


22      SCfPIO  AtMIUAXVS,  POLYBIUS,  PAN&TIUS. 

him  on  whose  shoulder  I  rest  my  head,  weary  with 
presages  and  vigils.  Collect  my  thoughts  for  me, 
O  my  friend!  the  fall  of  Cathage  hath  shaken  and 
scattered  them.  There  are  moments  when,  if  we 
are  quite  contented  with  ourselves,  we  never  can  5 
remount  to  what  we  were  before. 

Folybius.    Panrctius  is  absent. 

Scipio.  Feeling  the  necessity,  at  the  moment, 
of  utter  loneliness,  I  despatched  him  toward  the 
city.  There  may  be  (yes,  even  there)  some  suffer- 10 
ings  which  the  Senate  would  not  censure  us  for 
assuaging.  But  behold  he  returns!  We  were 
speaking  of  you,  Pan;etius! 

Pamctius.     And  about  what  beside?     Come,  hon- 
estly tell  me,    Polybius,   on   what   are    you    reflect-  15 
ing    and    meditating    with    such    sedately    intense 
enthusiasm? 

Polybius.   After  the  burning  of  some   village,   or 
the  overleaping  of    some  garden-wall,   to  extermi- 
nate a  few  pirates  or  highwaymen,  I  have  seen  the  20 
commander's    tent    thronged    with    officers;   I    have 
heard  as  many  trumpets  around   him  as  would  have 
shaken  down  the  places  of  themselves;   1    have  seen 
the  horses   start  from    the    pnutorium,   as    if    they 
would  fly  from   under  their  trappings,  and   spurred  25 
as  if  they  were  to   reach   the   east   and    west   before 
sunset,  that  nations  might  hear  of  the  exploit,  and 
sleep  soundly.      And    now  do   I  behold  in   solitude, 
almost   in   gloom,  and   in    such   silence  that,    unless 
my  voice    prevents   it,  the   grasshopper   is   audible,  30 
him  who  has  levelled  to  the  earth  the  strongest  and 
most    populous   of   cities,  the    wealthiest   and    most 


SCI P 10  ^MILIANUS,  POLYBIUS,  PAN&TIUS.      23 

formidable  of  empires.  I  had  seen  Rome;  I  had 
seen  (what  those  who  never  saw  never  will  see) 
Carthage!  I  thought  I  had  seen  Scipio;  it  was  but 
the  image  of  him:  here  I  find  him. 
5  Scipio.  There  are  many  hearts  that  ache  this 
day;  there  are  many  that  never  will  ache  more: 
hath  one  man  done  it?  one  man's  breath?  What 
air  upon  the  earth,  or  upon  the  waters,  or  in  the 
void  of  heaven  is  lost  so  quickly?  It  flies  away  at 

10  the  point  of  an  arrow,  and  returns   no   more!  the 

sea-foam  stifles  it!  the  tooth  of  a  reptile  stops  it! 

a  noxious  leaf  suppresses  it.     What  are  we  in  our 

greatness? — whence  rises  it?  whither  tends  it? 

Merciful  gods!  may  not  Rome  be  what  Carthage 

15  is?  May  not  those  who  love  her  devotedly,  those 
who  will  look  on  her  with  fondness  and  affection 
after  life,  see  her  in  such  condition  as  to  wish  she 
were  so? 

Polybius.   One  of  the  heaviest  groans  over  fallen 

20  Carthage  burst  from  the  breast  of  Scipio!  Who 
would  believe  this  tale? 

Scipio.  Men  like  my  Polybius:  others  must  never 
hear  it. 

Polybius.   You  have  not  ridden  forth,  /Emilianus, 

25  to  survey  the  ruins? 

Scipio.  No,  Polybius:  since  I  removed  my  tent  to 
avoid  the  heat  from  the  conflagration,  I  never  have 
ridden  nor  walked  nor  looked  toward  them.  At 
this  elevation,  and  three  miles  off,  the  temperature 

30 of  the  season  is  altered.  I  do  not  believe,  as  those 
about  me  would  have  persuaded  me,  that  the  gods 
were  visible  in  the  clouds;  that  thrones  of  ebony 


24      SCIPIO  &MILIANUS,  POL  YBIUS,  PAN  A?  TIUS. 

and  gold  were  scattered  in  all  directions;  that 
broken  chariots,  and  flaming  steeds,  and  brazen 
bridges,  had  cast  their  fragments  upon  the  earth; 
that  eagles  and  lions,  dolphins  and  tridents,  and 
other  emblems  of  power  and  empire,  were  visible  b 
at  one  moment  and  at  the  next  had  vanished;  that 
purple  and  scarlet  overspread  the  mansions  of  the 
gods;  that  their  voices  were  heard  at  first  con- 
fusedly and  discordantly;  and  that  the  apparition 
closed  with  their  high  festivals.  I  could  not  keep  10 
my  eyes  on  the  heavens:  a  crash  of  arch  or  of 
theatre  or  of  tower,  a  column  of  flame  rising  higher 
than  they  were,  or  a  universal  cry  as  if  none  until 
then  had  perished,  drew  them  thitherward.  Such 
were  the  dismal  sights  and  sounds,  a  fresh  city  15 
seemed  to  have  been  taken  every  hour  for  seven- 
teen days.  This  is  the  nineteenth  since  the  smoke 
arose  from  the  level  roofs  and  from  the  lofty  tem- 
ples; and  thousands  died,  and  tens  of  thousands 
ran  in  search  of  death.  20 

Calamity  moves  me;  heroism  moves  me  more. 
That  a  nation  whose  avarice  we  have  so  often  rep- 
rehended should  have  cast  into  the  furnace  gold 
and  silver,  from  the  insufficiency  of  brass  and  iron 
for  arms;  that  palaces  the  most  magnificent  should  -5 
have  been  demolished  by  the  proprietor  for  their 
beams  and  rafters,  in  order  to  build  a  fleet  against 
us;  that  the  ropes  whereby  the  slaves  hauled  them 
down  to  the  new  harbour  should  in  part  be  com- 
posed of  hair,  for  one  lock  of  which  kings  would  30 
have  laid  down  their  diadems;  that  Asdrubal 
should  have  found  equals,  his  wife  none, — my 


SCIPIO  /EMILIANUS,  POLYBIUS,  PAN&TIUS.      25 

mind,  my  very  limbs,  are    unsteady  with    admira- 
tion! 

O  Liberty!  what  art  thou  to  the  valiant  and 
brave,  when  thou  art  thus  to  the  weak  and  timid? 
5 — dearer  than  life,  stronger  than  death,  higher 
than  purest  love.  Never  will  I  call  upon  thee 
where  thy  name  can  be  profaned,  and  never  shall 
my  soul  acknowledge  a  more  exalted  Power  than 
thee. 


flDctcllus  anfc  /iDarius. 

Alctellus.  Well  met,  Cuius  Marius!  My  orders 
are  to  find  instantly  a  centurion  who  shall  mount 
the  walls;  one  capable  of  observation,  acute  in 
remark,  prompt,  calm,  active,  intrepid.  The  Nu- 
mantians  are  sacrificing  to  the  gods  in  secrecy;  5 
they  have  sounded  the  horn  once  only, — and 
hoarsely  and  low  and  mournfully. 

Marias.  \Vas  that  ladder  1  see  yonder  among  the 
caper-bushes  and  purple  lilies,  under  where  the  fig- 
tree  grows  out  of  the  rampart,  left  for  me?  iu 

Mctcllns.  Kven  so,  wert  thoti  willing.  Wouldst 
thon  mount  it? 

M>.i> ins.  Rejoicingly.  If  none  are  below  or  near, 
may  I  explore  the  stale  of  things  by  entering  the 
city?  15 

Mcltllits.    Use  thy  discretion  in  that. 

What  seest  thou?  U'ouldst  thou  leap  down?  Lift 
the  ladder. 

Mai-ins.  Are  there  spikes  in  it  where  it  sticks  in 
the  turf?  1  should  slip  else.  20 

Mt'lcllns.  I  low!  bravest  of  our  centurions,  art 
even  tlum  afraid?  Seest  thou  any  one  by? 

Miii'ins.    Ay;   some  hundreds  close  beneath  me. 

MttiUna.  Retire,  then.  Hasten  back;  I  will  pro- 
trct  t  h  v  descent.  25 

Miii'ins.  May  J  speak,  ()  Metellus,  without  an 
oilence  to  discipline? 

36 


METELLUS  AND  MAR1US.  27 

Metcllus.    Say. 

Marius.   Listen!     Dost  thou  not  hear? 

Metellus.   Shame    on    thee!    alight,    alight!     my 
shield  shall  cover  thee. 

5  Marius.  There  is  a  murmur  like  the  hum  of  bees 
in  the  bean-field  of  Cereate;  for  the  sun  is  hot,  and 
the  ground  is  thirsty.  When  will  it  have  drunk  up 
for  me  the  blood  that  has  run,  and  is  yet  oozing  on 
it,  from  those  fresh  bodies! 

10     Metellus.   How!     We  have  not   fought  for  many 
days;  what  bodies,  then,  are  fresh  ones? 

Marius.  Close  beneath  the  wall  are  those  of 
infants  and  of  girls;  in  the  middle  of  the  road  are 
youths,  emaciated;  some  either  unwounded  or 
15  wounded  months  ago;  some  on  their  spears,  others 
on  their  swords:  no  few  have  received  in  mutual 
death  the  last  interchange  of  friendship;  their 
daggers  unite  them,  hilt  to  hilt,  bosom  to  bosom. 

Metellus.   Mark  rather  the  living, — what  are  they 
20  about? 

Marius.   About    the     sacrifice,     which     portends 
them,  I  conjecture,  but  little  good, — it  burns  sul- 
lenly and  slowly.     The  victim  will  lie  upon  the  pyre 
till   morning,  and  still  be  unconsumed,  unless  they 
25  bring  more  fuel. 

I  will    leap   down   and    walk  on    cautiously,  and 
return  with  tidings,  if  death  should  spare  me. 

Never  was  any  race  of  mortals  so  unmilitary  as 
these  Numantians:  no  watch,  no  stations,  no  pali- 
30  sades  across  the  streets. 

Metellus.    Did  they  want,  then,  all  the  wood  for 
the  altar? 


28  ME  TELL  US  AND  MARIUS. 

Marius.  It  appears  so, — I  will  return  anon. 

Metellus.  The  gods  speed  thee,  my  brave,  honest 
Marius! 

Marius  (returned}.     The  ladder  should  have  been 
better  spiked  for  that  slippery  ground.     I  am  down   5 
again    safe,     however.      Here    a    man    may    walk 
securely,  and  without  picking  his  steps. 

Metellus.  Tell  me,  Gains,  what  thou  sawest. 

Marius.  The  streets  of  Numantia. 

Metellus.   Doubtless;  but  what  else?  10 

Marius.  The  temples  and  markets  and  places  of 
exercise  and  fountains. 

Metellus.  Art  thou  crazed,  centurion?  what  more? 
Speak  plainly,  at  once,  and  briefly. 

Marius.    I  beheld,  then,  all  Numantia.  15 

Metellus.  Has  terror  maddened  thee?  hast  thou 
descried  nothing  of  the  inhabitants  but  those  car- 
casses under  the  ramparts? 

Marius.   Those,    O     Metellus,    lie    scattered,    al- 
though not  indeed  far  asunder.     The  greater  part  of  20 
the  soldiers  and  citizens — of  the  fathers,  husbands, 
widows,  wives,  espoused — were  assembled  together. 

Metellus.   About  the  altar? 

Marius.    Upon  it. 

Metellus.   So  busy  and    earnest  in  devotion!    but  25 
how  all  upon  it? 

Marius.  It  blazed  under  them,  and  over  them, 
and  round  about  them. 

Metellus.    Immortal  gods!     Art  thou  sane,  Caius 
Marius?     Thy  visage  is  scorched  :  thy   speech  may  30 
wander  after  such  an  enterprise;  thy  shield  burns 
my  hand. 


METELLUS  AND  MARIUS.  29 

Marius.   I    thought  it   had  cooled  again.     Why, 
truly,  it  seems  hot:  I  now  feel  it. 
Metellus.  Wipe  off  those  embers. 
Marius.  'Twere  better:  there  will  be  none  oppo- 
5  site  to  shake  them  upon,  for  some  time. 

The  funereal  horn,  that  sounded  with  such  feeble- 
ness, sounded  not  so  from  the  faint  heart  of  him  who 
blew  it.  Him  I  saw;  him  only  of  the  living.  Should  I 
say  it?  there  was  another:  there  was  one  child  whom 
10  its  parent  could  not  kill,  could  not  part  from.  She 
had  hidden  it  in  her  robe,  I  suspect;  and,  when  the 
fire  had  reached  it,  either  it  shrieked  or  she  did. 
For  suddenly  a  cry  pierced  through  the  crackling 
pinewood,  and  something  of  round  in  figure  fell 
15  from  brand  to  brand,  until  it  reached  the  pavement, 
at  the  feet  of  him  who  had  blown  the  horn.  I 
rushed  toward  him,  for  I  wanted,  to  hear  the  whole 
story,  and  felt  the  pressure  of  time.  Condemn  not 
my  weakness,  O  Caecilius!  I  wished  an  enemy  to 
20 live  an  hour  longer;  for  my  orders  were  to  explore 
and  bring  intelligence.  When  I  gazed  on  him,  in 
height  almost  gigantic,  I  wondered  not  that  the 
blast  of  his  trumpet  was  so  weak:  rather  did  I 
wonder  that  Famine,  whose  hand  had  indented 
25  every  limb  and  feature,  had  left  him  any  voice 
articulate.  I  rushed  toward  him,  however,  ere  my 
eyes  had  measured  either  his  form  or  strength.  He 
held  the  child  against  me,  and  staggered  under  it. 

"Behold,"  he  exclaimed,  "the  glorious  ornament 
30  of  a  Roman  triumph  !  " 

I  stood  horror-stricken;  when  suddenly  drops,  as 
of  rain,  pattered  down  from  the  pyre.     I  looked; 


3°  METELLUS  AND   MARIUS. 

and  many  were  the  precious  stones,  many  were  the 
amulets  and  rings  and  bracelets,  and  other  barbaric 
ornaments,  unknown  to  me  in  form  or  purpose,  that 
tinkled  on  the  hardened  and  black  branches,  from 
mothers  and  wives  and  betrothed  maids;  and  some,  5 
too,  I  can  imagine,  from  robuster  arms — things  of 
joyance,  won  in  battle.  The  crowd  of  incumbent 
bodies  was  so  dense  and  heavy  that  neither  the  fire 
nor  the  smoke  could  penetrate  upward  from  among 
them;  and  they  sank,  whole  and  at  once,  into  the  10 
smouldering  cavern  eaten  out  below.  He  at  whose 
neck  hung  the  trumpet  felt  this,  and  started. 

"There  is  yet  room,"  he  cried,  "and  there  is 
strength  enough  yet,  both  in  the  element  and  in 
me."  15 

He  extended  his  withered  arms,  he  thrust  for- 
ward the  gaunt  links  of  his  throat,  and  upon 
gnarled  knees,  that  smote  each  other  audibly,  tot- 
tered into  the  civic  fire.  It — like  some  hungry  and 
strangest  beast  on  the  innermost  wild  of  Africa,  20 
pierced,  broken,  prostrate,  motionless,  gazed  at  by 
its  hunter  in  the  impatience  of  glory,  in  the  delight 
of  awe — panted  once  more,  and  seized  him. 

I  have  seen  within  this  hour,  O  Metellus,  what 
Rome  in  the  cycle  of  her  triumphs  will  never  see,  25 
what  the  Sun  in  his  eternal  course  can  never  show 
her,  what  the  Earth  has  borne  but  now,  and  must 
never  rear  again  for  her,  what  Victory  herself  has 
envied  her,— a  Xumantian. 

Afetelltts.    We     shall      feast     to-morrow.       Hope,  30 
Caius    Marius,     to    become    a    tribune:     trust    in 
fortune. 


ME  TELL  US  AND   MARIUS.  31 

Marius.  Auguries  are  surer:  surest  of  all  is  per- 
severance. 

Metellus.  I  hope  the  wine  has  not  grown  vapid 
in  my  tent:  I  have  kept  it  waiting,  and  must  now 
5  report  to  Scipio  the  intelligence  of  our  discovery. 
Come  after  me,  Caius. 

Marius  (alone).  The  tribune  is  the  discoverer! 
the  centurion  is  the  scout!  Caius  Marius  must 
enter  more  Numantias.  Light-hearted  Crccilius, 
lothou  mayest  perhaps  hereafter,  and  not  with 
humbled  but  with  exulting  pride,  take  orders  from 
this  hand.  If  Scipio's  words  are  fate,  and  to  me 
they  sound  so,  the  portals  of  the  Capitol  may  shake 
before  my  chariot,  as  my  horses  plunge  back  at  the 
15 applauses  of  the  people,  and  Jove  in  his  high  dom- 
icile may  welcome  the  citizen  of  Arpinum. 


Xucullus  anfc  Ga:sar. 

dcsar.  Lucius  Lucullus,  I  come  to  you  privately 
and  unattended  for  reasons  which  you  will  know; 
confiding,  I  dare  not  say  in  your  friendship,  since 
no  service  of  mine  toward  you  hath  deserved  it,  but 
in  your  generous  and  disinterested  love  of  peace.  5 
Hear  me  on.  Cneius  Pompeius,  according  to  the 
report  of  my  connections  in  the  city,  had,  on  the 
instant  of  my  leaving  it  for  the  province,  begun  to 
solicit  his  dependents  to  strip  me  ignominiously  of 
authority.  Neither  vows  nor  affinity  can  bind  him.  10 
He  would  degrade  the  father  of  his  wife;  he  would 
humiliate  his  own  children,  the  unoffending,  the 
unborn;  he  would  poison  his  own  nascent  love — 
at  the  suggestion  of  Ambition.  Matters  are  now 
brought  so  far  that  either  he  or  I  must  submit  to  a  15 
reverse  of  fortune;  since  no  concession  can  assuage 
his  malice,  divert  his  envy,  or  gratify  his  cupidity. 
No  sooner  could  I  raise  myself  up,  from  the  con- 
sternation and  stupefaction  into  which  the  certainty 
of  these  reports  had  thrown  me,  than  I  began  to  20 
consider  in  what  manner  my  own  private  afflictions 
might  become  the  least  noxjous  to  the  republic. 
Into  whose  arms,  then,  could  I  throw  myself  more 
naturally  and  more  securely,  to  whose  bosom  could 
I  commit  and  consign  more  sacredly  the  hopes  and  25 
destinies  of  our  beloved  country,  than  his  who  laid 


LUCULLUS  AND   CAESAR.  33 

down  power  in  the  midst  of  its  enjoyments,  in  the 
vigour  of  youth,  in  the  pride  of  triumph,  when 
Dignity  solicited,  when  Friendship  urged,  en- 
treated, supplicated,  and  when  Liberty  herself 
5  invited  and  beckoned  to  him  from  the  senatorial 
order  and  from  the  curule  chair?  Betrayed  and 
abandoned  by  those  we  had  confided  in,  our  next 
friendship,  if  ever  our  hearts  receive  any,  or  if  any 
will  venture  in  those  places  of  desolation,  flies  for- 

10  ward  instinctively  to  what  is  most  contrary  and  dis- 
similar. Coesar  is  hence  the  visitant  of  Lucullus. 

Lucullus.  I  had  always  thought  Pompeius  more 
moderate  and  more  reserved  than  you  represent 
him,  Caius  Julius;  and  yet  I  am  considered  in 

15  general,  and  surely  you  also  will  consider  me,  but 
little  liable  to  be  prepossessed  by  him. 

Cczsar.  Unless  he  may  have  ingratiated  himself 
with  you  recently,  by  the  administration  of  that 
worthy  whom  last  winter  his  partisans  dragged 

20  before  the  Senate,  and  forced  to  assert  publicly 
that  you  and  Cato  had  instigated  a  party  to  circum- 
vent and  murder  him;  and  whose  carcass,  a  few 
days  afterward,  when  it  had  been  announced  that 
he  had  died  by  a  natural  death,  was  found  covered 

25  with  bruises,  stabs,  and  dislocations. 

Lucullus.  You  bring  much  to  my  memory  which 
had  quite  slipped  out  of  it,  and  I  wonder  that  it 
could  make  such  an  impression  on  yours.  A  proof 
to  me  that  the  interest  you  take  in  my  behalf  began 

30  earlier  than  your  delicacy  will  permit  you  to  ac- 
knowledge. You  are  fatigued,  which  I  ought  to 
have  perceived  before. 


34  LUCUI.l.rS  AND   CAESAR. 

Ctesar.  Not  at  all;  the  fresh  air  has  given  me 
life  and  alertness:  1  feel  it  upon  my  cheek  even  in 
the  room. 

LiicnUus.   After  our   dinner    and    sleep,    we    will 
spend  the  remainder  of  the  day  on  the   subject  of   5 
your  visit. 

Cicsar.  Those  Ethiopian  slaves  of  yours  shiver 
with  cold  upon  the  mountain  here;  and  truly  I  my- 
self was  not  insensible  to  the  change  of  climate,  in 
the  way  from  Mutina.  I0 

What  white  bread!  I  never  found  such  even  at 
Naples  or  Capua.  This  Formian  wine  (which  I 
prefer  to  the  Chian),  how  exquisite! 

Lucnllus.    Such     is    the  urbanity    of    Crcsar,    even 
while     he    bites    his    lip     with     displeasure.      How!  15 
surely  it  bleeds!      Permit  me  to  examine  the  cup. 

Cu'Siir.  I  believe  a  jewel  has  fallen  out  of  the  rim 
in  the  carriage:  the  gold  is  rough  there. 

I.ttiullits.    Marcipor,    let    me   never    see    that   cup 
again!      \o   answer,    1    desire.      My    guest    pardons  20 
heavier  faults.      Mind   that  dinner   be   prepared    for 
us  shortly. 

Ctrsiir.    In     the      meantime,       I.ncullns,      if      your 
health  permits  it,  shall  we  walk  a    few   paces    round 
the  villa?   for  1  have  not  seen  anything  of    the    kind  25 
before. 


You   are    surveying  the  little  lake    be- 
side   us.      It  contains    no    fish,    birds   never  alight 
on    it,  the   water   is   extremely    pure    and   cold;   the 
walk  round    is   pleasant,  imt    only    because    there    is  30 
always   a   gentle  bree/.e    from    it,    but   because    the 


LUCULLUS  AND  C&SAR.  35 

turf  is  fine,  and  the  surface  of  the  mountain  on  this 
summit  is  perfectly  on  a  level  to  a  great  extent  in 
length — not  a  trifling  advantage  to  me,  who  walk 
often  and  am  weak.  I  have  no  alley,  no  garden, 
5  no  enclosure;  the  park  is  in  the  vale  below,  where 
a  brook  supplies  the  ponds,  and  where  my  serv- 
ants are  lodged;  for  here  I  have  only  twelve  in 
attendance. 

Casar.  What  is  that  so  white,  toward  the 
10  Adriatic? 

Lucullits.  The  Adriatic   itself.     Turn  round  and 

you  may  descry  the  Tuscan  Sea.     Our  situation  is 

reported  to  be  among  the  highest  of  the  Apennines. 

— Marcipor  has  made  the  sign  to  me  that  dinner  is 

15  ready.     Pass  this  way. 

This  other  is  my  dining-room.     You  expect  the 
dishes. 

Ccesar.   I  misunderstood, — I  fancied — 
Lucullus.   Repose  yourself,    and   touch   with    the 
20 ebony   wand,  beside  you,  the  sphinx   on    either  of 
those  obelisks,  right  or  left. 

Ccesar.   Let  me  look  at  them  first. 
Lucullus.  The  contrivance  was  intended  for  one 
person,  or   two  at   most,    desirous  of  privacy    and 
25  quiet.      The  blocks    of  jasper  in   my  pair,  and  of 
porphyry  in   yours,   easily   yield   in   their  grooves, 
each  forming  one   partition.      There  are  four,  con- 
taining   four    platforms.       The    lower     holds    four 
dishes,     such    as     sucking     forest-boars,     venison, 
30  hares,  tunnies,     sturgeons,     which     you    will     find 
within;  the   upper   three,   eight   each,    but   diminu- 


3<5  LUCULLUS  AND   CJLSAR. 

tive.  The  confectionery  is  brought  separately,  for 
the  steam  would  spoil  it,  if  any  should  escape. 
The  melons  are  in  the  snow,  thirty  feet  under  us: 
they  came  early  this  morning  from  a  place  in  the 
vicinity  of  Luni,  so  that  I  hope  they  may  be  crisp,  5 
independently  of  their  coolness. 

Cffsar.  I  wonder  not  at  anything  of  refined 
elegance  in  Lucullus;  but  really  here  Antiochia 
and  Alexandria  seem  to  have  cooked  for  us,  and 
magicians  to  be  our  attendants.  10 

Lucullus.  The  absence  of  slaves  from  our  repast 
is  the  luxury,  for  Marcipor  alone  enters,  and  he 
only  when  I  press  a  spring  with  my  foot  or  wand. 
When  you  desire  his  appearance,  touch  that  chal- 
cedony just  before  you. 

Ciesar.  I  eat  quick  and  rather  plentifully;  yet 
the  valetudinarian  (excuse  my  rusticity,  for  I  re- 
joice at  seeing  it)  appears  to  equal  the  traveller  in 
appetite,  and  to  be  contented  with  one  dish. 

Lucullus.    It    is    milk:    such,    with    strawberries,  20 
which  ripen  on  the  Apennines  many  months  in  con- 
tinuance,   and    some    other    berries   of    sharp     and 
grateful  flavour,    has  been   my  only   diet  since  my 
first    residence   here.      The   state  of  my  health  re- 
quires it;  and  the  habitude  of  nearly  three  months  25 
renders  this  food  not  only  more  commodious  to  my 
studies  and   more  conducive  to   my  sleep,    but  also 
more  agreeable  to  my  palate  than  any  other. 

Ciesar.     Returning   to    Rome    or    ]5aia>,  you    must 
domesticate   and    tame   them.       The     cherries    you  30 
introduced  from  Pont  us  are  now   growing   in    Cisal- 
pine  and   Transalpine   Ciaul;    and    the    largest    and 


LUCULLUS  AND  C&SAR.  37 

best   in   the   world,   perhaps,    are   upon   the   more 
sterile  side  of  Lake  Larius. 

Lucullus.   There  are  some  fruits,  and  some  virtues, 
which  require  a  harsh  soil  and  bleak  exposure  for 
5  their  perfection. 

Casar.  In  such  a  profusion  of  viands,  and  so 
savoury,  I  perceive  no  odour. 

Lucullus.  A  flue  conducts  heat  through  the  com- 
partments of  the  obelisks;  and,  if  you  look  up,  you 

10  may  observe  that  those  gilt  roses,  between  the 
astragals  in  the  cornice,  are  prominent  from  it  half 
a  span.  Here  is  an  aperture  in  the  wall,  between 
which  and  the  outer  is  a  perpetual  current  of  air. 
We  are  now  in  the  dog-days;  and  I  have  never  felt 

15  in  the  whole  summer  more  heat  than  at  Rome 
in  many  days  of  March. 

Casar.  Usually  you  are  attended  by  troops  of 
domestics  and  of  dinner-friends,  not  to  mention 
the  learned  and  scientific,  nor  your  own  family, 

20 your  attachment  to  which,  from  youth  upward,  is 
one  of  the  higher  graces  in  your  character.  Your 
brother  was  seldom  absent  from  you. 

Lucullus.  Marcus  was  coming;  but  the  vehement 
heats  along  the  Arno,  in  which  valley  he  has  a 

25  property  he  never  saw  before,  inflamed  his  blood, 
and  he  now  is  resting  for  a  few  days  at  Fresulrc,  a 
little  town  destroyed  by  Sylla  within   our  memory, 
who  left  it  only  air  and  water,  the  best  in  Tuscany 
The  health  of  Marcus,  like   mine,  has   been    clcclin- 

30  ing  for  several  months:  we  are  running  our  last 
race  against  each  other,  and  never  was  I,  in  youth 
along  the  Tiber,  so  anxious  of  first  reaching  the 


38  LUCULLUS  AND   CAESAR. 

goal.  I  would  not  outlive  him:  I  should  reflect 
too  painfully  on  earlier  days,  and  look  forward  too 
despondently  on  future.  As  for  friends,  lampreys 
and  turbots  beget  them,  and  they  spawn  not  amid 
the  solitude  of  the  Apennines.  To  dine  in  company  5 
with  more  than  two  is  a  Gaulish  and  German  thing. 
I  can  hardly  bring  myself  to  believe  that  I  have 
eaten  in  concert  with  twenty;  so  barbarous  and 
herdlike  a  practice  does  it  now  appear  to  me — such 
an  incentive  to  drink  much  and  talk  loosely;  not  10 
to  add,  such  a  necessity  to  speak  loud,  which  is 
clownish  and  odious  in  the  extreme.  On  this 
mountain  summit  I  hear  no  noises,  no  voices,  not 
even  of  salutation;  we  have  no  flies  about  us,  and 
scarcely  an  insect  or  reptile.  15 

Cicsar.   Your  amiable    son    is    probably    with  his 
uncle:  is  he  well? 

Lucitllus.  Perfectly.  lie  was  indeed  with  my 
brother  in  his  intended  visit  to  me;  but  Marcus, 
unable  to  accompany  him  hither,  or  superintend  20 
his  studies  in  the  present  state  of  his  health,  sent 
him  directly  to  his  Uncle  Cato  at  Tusculum — a 
man  fitter  than  either  of  us  to  direct  his  education, 
and  preferable  to  any,  excepting  yourself  and 
Marcus  Tullius*  in  eloquence  and  urbanity.  25 

Ctcsar.   Cato  is  so   great    that  whoever   is  greater 
must  be  the  happiest  and  first  of  men. 

Luciilliis.     That   any    such    be    still     existing,     O 
Julius,  ought  to  excite  no  groan  from  the  breast  of 
a  Roman  citi/cn.      15ut  perhaps   I    wrong   you;  per- 30 
haps  your  mind  was  forced   reluctantly  back  again, 
on  your  past  animosities  and  contests  in  the  Senate. 


LUCULLUS  AND   C^SAR.  39 

Casar.   I  revere  him,  but  cannot  love  him. 
Lucullus.    Then,  Caius  Julius,  you  groaned  with 
reason;    and    I    would    pity    rather    than    reprove 
you. 

5  On  the  ceiling  at  which  you  are  looking,  there  is 
no  gilding,  and  little  painting — a  mere  trellis  of 
vines  bearing  grapes,  and  the  heads,  shoulders, 
and  arms,  rising  from  the  cornice  only,  of  boys  and 
girls  climbing  up  to  steal  them,  and  scrambling  for 

10  them :  nothing  overhead;  no  giants  tumbling  down, 
no  Jupiter  thundering,  no  Mars  and  Venus  caught 
at  mid-day,  no  river-gods  pouring  out  their  urns 
upon  us;  for,  as  I  think  nothing  so  insipid  as  a  flat 
ceiling,  I  think  nothing  so  absurd  as  a  storied  one. 

15  Before  I  was  aware,  and  without  my  participation, 
the  painter  had  adorned  that  of  my  bed-chamber 
with  a  golden  shower,  bursting  from  varied  and 
irradiated  clouds.  On  my  expostulation,  his  ex- 
cuse was  that  he  knew  the  Danae  of  Scopas,  in  a 

20  recumbent  posture,  was  to  occupy  the  centre  of 
the  room.  The  walls,  behind  the  tapestry  and 
pictures,  are  quite  rough.  In  forty-three  days  the 
whole  fabric  was  put  together  and  habitable. 

The  wine   has   probably   lost   its   freshness:    will 

25  you  try  some  other? 

C(csar.  Its  temperature  is  exact;  its  flavour  ex- 
quisite. Latterly  I  have  never  sat  long  after  din- 
ner, and  am  curious  to  pass  through  the  other 
apartments,  if  you  will  trust  me. 

30      Luciillns.    I  attend  you. 

Cxsar.  Lucullus,  who  is  here?  What  figure  is 
that  on  the  poop  of  the  vessel?  Can  it  be — 


40  LUCULLUS  AXD   CMSAR. 

Lucullus.  The  subject  was  dictated  by  myself; 
you  gave  it. 

Ctfsar.  Oh,  how  beautifully  is  the  water  painted! 
How  vividly  the  sun  strike's  against  the  snows  on 
Taurus!  The  gray  temples  and  pier-head  of  5 
Tarsus  catch  it  differently,  and  the  monumental 
mound  on  the  left  is  half  in  shade.  In  the  coun- 
tenance of  those  pirates  1  did  not  observe  such 
diversity,  nor  that  any  boy  pulled  his  father  back: 
I  did  not  indeed  mark  them  or  notice  them  at  all.  10 

Lucullus.  The  painter  in  this  fresco,  the  last 
work  finished,  had  dissatisfied  me  in  one  particular. 
"That  beautiful  young  face,"  said  I,  "appears  not 
to  threaten  death." 

"Lucius,"  he     replied,      "if     one    muscle    were  15 
moved  it  were  not  Cujsar's:   beside,  he  said    it  jok- 
ingly, though  resolved." 

"I   am   contented    with   your  apology,  Antipho; 
but  what  are  you    doing    now  ?    for    you    never    lay 
down  or  suspend  your  pencil,  let  who  will    talk  and  20 
argue.     The  lines  of  that   smaller   face   in   the   dis- 
tance are  the  same." 

"  Not  the  same,"  replied  he,  "  nor  very  different: 
it  smiles,  as  surely  the  goddess  must  have  done  at 
the  first  heroic  act  of  her  descendant."  25 

Cicsar.  In  her  exultation  and  impatience  to  press 
forward  she  seems  to  forget  that  she  is  standing  at 
the  extremity  of  the  shell,  which  rises  up  behind 
out  of  the  water;  and  she  takes  no  notice  of  the 
terror  on  the  countenance  of  this  Cupid  who  would  30 
detain  her,  nor  of  this  who  i^  Hying  off  and  looking 
back.  The  reflection  of  the  shell  has  given  a 


LUCULLUS  AND   CsESAR.  4* 

warmer  hue  below  the  knee;  a  long  streak  of  yellow 
light  in  the  horizon  is  on  the  level  of  her  bosom, 
some  of  her  hair  is  almost  lost  in  it;  above  her 
head  on  every  side  is  the  pure  azure  of  the  heavens. 
5  Oh!  and  you  would  not  have  led  me  up  to  this? 
You,  among  whose  primary  studies  is  the  most 
perfect  satisfaction  of  your  guests! 

LuciiUus.  In  the  next  apartment  are  seven  or 
eight  other  pictures  from  our  history. 

10     There  are  no  more:  what  do  you  look  for? 

Ctvsar.  I  find  not  among  the  rest  any  descriptive 
of  your  own  exploits.  Ah,  Lucullus!  there  is  no 
surer  way  of  making  them  remembered. 

This,  I  presume  by  the  harps  in  the  two  corners, 

15  is  the  music-room. 

Lucullus.  No,  indeed;  nor  can  I  be  said  to  have 
one  here;  for  I  love  best  the  music  of  a  single  in- 
strument, and  listen  to  it  willingly  at  all  times, 
but  most  willingly  while  I  am  reading.  At  such 

20 seasons  a  voice  or  even  a  whisper  disturbs  me; 
but  music  refreshes  my  brain  when  I  have 
read  long,  and  strengthens  it  from  the  begin- 
ning. I  find  also  that  if  I  write  anything  in 
poetry  (a  youthful  propensity  still  remaining),  it 

25  gives  rapidity  and  variety  and  brightness  to  my 
ideas.  On  ceasing,  I  command  a  fresh  measure 
and  instrument,  or  another  voice;  which  is  to 
the  mind  like  a  change  of  posture,  or  of  air  to  the 
body.  My  health  is  benefited  by  the  gentle  play 

30  thus  opened  to  the  most  delicate  of  the  fibres. 

Ctcsar.  Let  me  augur  that  a  disorder  so  tractable 
may  be  soon  removed.  What  is  it  thought  to  be  ? 


42  LU CULL  US  A.VD   CSESAR. 

Luciilliis.  There  are  they  who  would  surmise  and 
signify,  and  rny  physician  did  not  long  attempt  to 
persuade  me  of  the  contrary,  that  the  ancient  realms 
of  /Kietes  have  supplied  me  with  some  other  plants 
than  the  cherry,  and  such  as  I  should  be  sorry  to  5 
see  domesticated  here  in  Italy. 

Cicscir.   The  gods  forbid!  Anticipate  better  things! 
The  reason  of  Lucullus  is  stronger  than  the  medica- 
ments of  Mithridates;  but  why  not   use  them,  too? 
Let  nothing  be  neglected.     You  may  reasonably  hope  10 
for  many  years  of  life:  your  mother  still  enjoys  it. 

Lucullus.  To  stand  upon  one's  guard  against 
Death  exasperates  her  malice  and  protracts  our 
sufferings. 

Ctcsar.     Rightly     and     gravely     said:    but    your  15 
country  at  this  time  cannot  do  well  without  you. 

Lucullus.  The  bowl  of  milk,  which  to-day  is  pre- 
sented to  me,  will  shortly  be  presented  to  my 
Manes. 

Cu'sar.    Do  you  suspect  the  hand?  20 

Lucullus.  I  will  not  suspect  a  Roman:  let  us  con- 
verse no  more  about  it. 

dcsar.    It    is    the    only    subject    on    which    I    am 
resolved    never    to    think,    as    relates    to    myself. 
Life  may  concern   us,  death   not;  for  in   death  we  25 
neither  can  act  nor  reason,  we  neither  can  persuade 
nor  command;  and  our  statues  are  worth  more  than 
we   are,  let   them   be   but  wax.      Lucius,  I   will   not 
divine   your    thoughts;    I   will    not    penetrate    into 
your  suspicions,  nor   suggest   mine.      1    am    lost    in  30 
admiration  of  your  magnanimity  and  forbearance — 
that   your   only   dissimulation    should   be  upon  the 


LUCULLUS  AND  CsESAR.  43 

guilt  of  your  assassin;  that  you  should  leave  him 
power,  and  create  him  virtues. 

Lucullus.  Hear  me,  and  believe  me.  I  am  about 
to  mount  higher  than  triumviral  tribunal,  or  than 
5  triumphal  car.  They  who  are  under  me  will  turn 
their  faces  from  me;  such  are  the  rites:  but  not  a 
voice  of  reproach  or  of  petulance  shall  be  heard,  when 
the  trumpets  tell  our  city  that  the  funereal  flames 
are  surmounting  the  mortal  spoils  of  Lucullus. 

10  Ciesar.  Mildest  and  most  equitable  of  men!  I 
have  been  much  wronged;  would  you  also  wrong 
me?  Lucius,  you  have  forced  from  me  a  tear  before 
the  time.  I  weep  at  magnanimity;  which  no  man 
does  who  wants  it. 

15  Lucullus.  Why  cannot  you  enjoy  the  command  of 
your  province,  and  the  glory  of  having  quelled  so 
many  nations? 

Cccsar.   I  cannot  bear  the  superiority  of  another. 
Lucullus.   The   weakest   of   women    feel    so;    but 

20  even  the  weakest  of  them  are  ashamed  to  acknowl- 
edge it:  who  hath  ever  heard  anyone?  Havejw/, 
who  know  them  widely  and  well?  Poetasters  and 
mimes,  labouring  under  such  infirmity,  put  the  mask 
on.  You  pursue  glory:  the  pursuit  is  just  and 

25  rational;  but  reflect  that  statuaries  and  painters 
have  represented  heroes  calm  and  quiescent,  not 
straining  and  panting  like  pugilists  and  gladiators. 

From  being  for  ever  in  action,  for  ever  in  conten- 
tion, and  from  excelling  in  them  all  other  mortals, 

30  what  advantage  derive  we?  1  would  not  ask  what 
satisfaction,  what  glory?  The  insects  have  more 


44  LUCULLVS  AND   C.ESAK. 

activity  than  ourselves,  the  beasts  more  strength, 
even  inert  matter  more  firmness  and  stability;  the 
gods  alone  more  goodness.  To  the  exercise  of  this 
every  country  lies  open;  and  neither  I  eastward  nor 
you  westward  have  found  any  exhausted  by  contests  5 
for  it. 

Must  we  give  men  blows  because  they  will  not 
look  at  us?  or  chain  them  to  make  them  hold  the 
balance  evener? 

Do  not  expect  to  be  acknowledged  for  what  you  10 
are,  much  less  for  what  you  would  be;  since  no  one 
can  well  measure  a  great  man  but  upon  the  bier. 
There  was  a  time  when  the  most  ardent  friend  to 
Alexander  of   Macedon   would   have  embraced  the 
partisan  for  his  enthusiasm,  who  should  have  com-  15 
pared  him  with  Alexander  of  Pherre.     It  must  have 
been  at  a  splendid   feast,  and  late  at  it,  when  Scipio 
should     have    been     raised     to    an     equality    with 
Romulus,  or  Cato  with  Curius.     It  has  been  whis- 
pered in   my  ear,  after  a  speech  of  Cicero,  "If  he  20 
goes  on  so,  he  will  tread  down  the  sandal  of  Mar- 
cus Antonius   in   the   long   run,  and   perhaps   leave 
Hortensius   behind."      Officers   of   mine,    speaking 
about  you,   have  exclaimed  with   admiration,  "  lie 
fights  like   Cinna."     Think,   Cains   Julius  (for  you  25 
have  been  instructed  to  think  both  as  a  poet  and  as 
a  philosopher),  that  among  the  hundred  hands   of 
Ambition,  to   whom   we   may   attribute   them   more 
properly  than  to  I'riareus,    there  is  not  one  which 
holds  anything  firmly.      In  the  precipitancy  of  her  3° 
course,    what     appears     great    is    small,    and    what 
appears  small  is  great.     Our  estimate  of  men  is  apt 


LUCULLUS  AND   CAESAR.  45 

to  be  as  inaccurate  and  inexact  as  that  of  things,  or 
more.  Wishing  to  have  all  on  our  side,  we  often 
leave  those  we  should  keep  by  us,  run  after  those 
we  should  avoid,  and  call  importunately  on  others 
5  who  sit  quiet  and  will  not  come.  We  cannot  at 
once  catch  the  applause  of  the  vulgar  and  expect 
the  approbation  of  the  wise.  What  are  parties? 
Do  men  really  great  ever  enter  into  them?  Are 
they  not  ball-courts,  where  ragged  adventurers 

10  strip  and  strive,  and  where  dissolute  youths  abuse 
one  another,  and  challenge  and  game  and  wager? 
If  you  and  I  cannot  quite  divest  ourselves  of 
infirmities  and  passions,  let  us  think  however  that 
there  is  enough  in  us  to  be  divided  into  two  por- 

15  tions,  and  let  us  keep  the  upper  undisturbed  and 
pure.  A  part  of  Olympus  itself  lies  in  dreariness 
and  in  clouds,  variable  and  stormy;  but  it  is  not 
the  highest:  there  the  gods  govern.  Your  soul  is 
large  enough  to  embrace  your  country:  all  other 

20 affection  is  for  less  objects,  and  less  men  are 
capable  of  it.  Abandon,  O  Caesar!  such  thoughts 
and  wishes  as  now  agitate  and  propel  you:  leave 
them  to  mere  men  of  the  marsh,  to  fat  hearts  and 
miry  intellects.  Fortunate  may  we  call  ourselves  to 

25  have  been  born  in  an  age  so  productive  of  elo- 
quence, so  rich  in  erudition.  Neither  of  us  would 
be  excluded,  or  hooted  at,  on  canvassing  for  these 
honours.  He  who  can  think  dispassionately  and 
deeply  as  I  do,  is  great  as  I  am;  none  other.  But 

30  his  opinions  are  at  freedom  to  diverge  from  mine,  as 
mine  are  from  his;  andindeed,onrecollection,I  never 
loved  those  most  who  thought  with  me,  but  those 


46  LL7CUIJ.CS  AXD   C.-ESAK. 

rather  who  deemed  my  sentiments  worth  discussion, 
and  who  corrected  me  with  frankness  and  affability. 

Cicsar.    Lucullus,    you     perhaps    have     taken    the 
wiser  and  better  part,  certainly  the  pleasanter.      I 
cannot  argue  with  you:   I  would  gladly  hear  one  who   5 
could,  but  you  again  more  gladly.      I  should   think 
unworthily  of  you  if  1  thought  you  capable  of  yield- 
ing or  receding.      1  do  not  even  ask  you  to  keep  our 
conversation  long  a  secret,  so  greatly  does  it  pre- 
ponderate in  your  favour;   so    much    more  of  gen- 10 
tleness,    of   eloquence,    and  of  argument.      1    came 
hither   with   one   soldier,    avoiding    the   cities,    and 
sleeping  at  the  villa  of  a  confidential  friend.     To- 
night I  sleep  in  yours,  and,  if  your  dinner  does  not 
disturb  me,  shall  sleep  soundly.     You  go  early  to  15 
rest,  I  know. 

Lucullus.  Not,  however,  by  daylight.  Be  assured, 
Caius  Julius,  that  greatly  as  your  discourse  afflicts 
me,  no  part  of  it  shall  escape  my  lips.  If  you  ap- 
proach the  city  with  arms,  with  arms  I  meet  you;  20 
then  your  denouncer  and  enemy,  at  present  your 
host  and  confidant. 

dcsar.    I  shall  conquer  you. 

Lucullus.   That   smile   would   cease   upon   it:  you 
sigh  already.  25 

Cicsar.  Yes,  Lucullus,  if  I  am  oppressed  I  shall 
overcome  my  oppressor:  I  know  my  army  and 
myself.  A  sigh  escaped  me,  and  many  more  will 
follow;  but  one  transport  will  rise  amid  them,  when, 
vanquisher  of  my  enemies  and  avenger  of  my  dig-  30 
nity,  1  press  again  the  hand  of  Lucullus,  mindful  of 
this  day. 


TTibertus  anb  Dipsania. 

Tiberius.  Vipsania,  my  Vipsania,  whither  art  thou 
walking? 

Vipsania.  Whom  do  I  see? — my  Tiberius? 

Tiberius.  Ah!    no,    no,   no!    but   thou    seest   the 

5  father  of  thy  little  Drusus.     Press  him  to  thy  heart 

the  more  closely  for  this  meeting,  and  give  him • 

Vipsania.  Tiberius!  the  altars,  the  gods,  the 
destinies,  are  between  us — I  will  take  it  from  this 
hand;  thus,  thus  shall  he  receive  it. 
10  Tiberius.  Raise  up  thy  face,  my  beloved!  I  must 
not  shed  tears.  Augustus!  Livia!  ye  shall  not 
extort  them  from  me.  Vipsania!  I  may  kiss  thy 
head — for  I  have  saved  it.  Thou  sayest  nothing. 
I  have  wronged  thee;  ay? 

15  Vipsania.  Ambition  does  not  see  the  earth  she 
treads  on;  the  rock  and  the  herbage  are  of  one 
substance  to  her.  Let  me  excuse  you  to  my  heart, 
O  Tiberius.  It  has  many  wants;  this  is  the  first 
and  greatest. 

20  Tiberius.  My  ambition,  I  swear  by  the  immortal 
gods,  placed  not  the  bar  of  severance  between  us. 
A  stronger  hand,  the  hand  that  composes  Rome 
and  sways  the  world — 

Vipsania.   Overawed  Tiberius.     I  know  it;  Angus- 
25  tus  willed  and  commanded  it. 

Tiberius.   And  overawed   Tiberius!     Power  bent 

47 


48  TIBERIUS  AND    VIPSANIA. 

Death  terrified,  a  Nero!  What  is  our  race,  that 
any  should  look  down  on  us  and  spurn  us?  Augus- 
tus, my  benefactor,  1  have  wronged  thee!  Livia, 
my  mother,  this  one  cruel  deed  was  thine!  To 
reign,  forsooth,  is  a  lovely  thing.  O  womanly  ap-  5 
petite!  Who  would  have  been  before  me,  though 
the  palace  of  Caesar  cracked  and  split  with  emperors, 
while  I,  sitting  in  idleness  on  a  cliff  of  Rhodes,  eyed 
the  sun  as  he  svvang  his  golden  censer  athwart  the 
heavens,  or  his  image  as  it  overstrode  the  sea?  1 10 
have  it  before  me;  and,  though  it  seems  falling  on 
me,  I  can  smile  at  it — just  as  I  did  from  my  little 
favourite  skiff,  painted  round  with  the  marriage  of 
Thetis,  when  the  sailors  drew  their  long  shaggy  hair 
across  their  eyes,  many  a  stadium  away  from  it,  to  15 
mitigate  its  effulgence. 

These,  too,  were  happy  days:  days  of  happiness 
like  these  I  could  recall  and  look  back  upon  with 
unaching  brow. 

O  land  of  Greece!     Tiberius  blesses  thee,  bidding  2o 
thee  rejoice  and  flourish. 

Why  cannot  one  hour,  Vipsania,  beauteous  and 
light  as  we  have  led,  return? 

Vipsania.   Tiberius!    is    it    to    me  that    you  were 
speaking?     I  would  not  interrupt  you ;  but  I  thought  25 
I  heard  my  name  as  you  walked  away  and  looked  up 
toward  the  East.     So  silent! 

Tibefius.  Who  dared  to  call  thee?  Thou  wert 
mine  before  the  gods — do  they  deny  it?  Was  it  my 

fault 30 

Vipsania.  Since  we  are  separated,  and  for  ever, 
O  Tiberius,  let  us  think  no  more  on  the  cause  of  it. 


TIBERIUS  AMD    VIPSANIA.  49 

Let   neither  of   us  believe   that   the  other  was  to 
blame:  so  shall  separation  be  less  painful. 

Tiberius.  O  mother!  and  did  I  not  tell  thee  what 
she  was? — patient    in  injury,  proud   in   innocence, 
5  serene  in  grief! 

Vipsania.  Did  you  say  that  too?  But  I  think  it 
was  so:  I  had  felt  little.  One  vast  wave  has  washed 
away  the  impression  of  smaller  from  my  memory. 
Could  Livia,  could  your  mother,  could  she  who  was 

10  so  kind  to  me 

Tiberius.  The  wife  of  Caesar  did  it.  But  hear  me 
now;  hear  me:  be  calm  as  I  am.  No  weaknesses 
are  such  as  those  of  a  mother  who  loves  her  only 
son  immoderately;  and  none  are  so  easily  worked 

15  upon  from  without.  Who  knows  what  impulses  she 
received?  She  is  very,  very  kind;  but  she  regards 
me  only,  and  that  which  at  her  bidding  is  to  encom- 
pass and  adorn  me.  All  the  weak  look  after  Power, 
protectress  of  weakness.  Thou  art  a  woman,  O 

20 Vipsania!  is  there  nothing  in  thee  to  excuse  my 
mother?  So  good  she  ever  was  to  me!  so  loving! 

Vipsania.  I  quite  forgive  her:  be  tranquil,  O 
Tiberius! 

Tiberius.   Never  can   I  know  peace — never  can  I 

25  pardon— any  one.  Threaten  me  with  thy  exile,  thy 
separation,  thy  seclusion!  Remind  me  that  another 
climate  might  endanger  thy  health! — There  death 
met  me  and  turned  me  round.  Threaten  me  to  take 
our  son  from  us — our  one  boy,  our  helpless  little 

30  one — him  whom  we  made  cry  because  we  kissed  him 
both  together!  Rememberest  thou?  Or  dost  thou 
not  hear?  turning  thus  away  from  me! 


5°  TIBEKIfS  AXD    I' IPS  A. VI. 4. 

Vipsania.  I  hear;  1  hear!  Oh  cease,  my  sweet 
Tiberius!  Stamp  not  upon  that  stone:  my  heart 
lies  under  it. 

Tiberius.   Ay,  there  again   death,  and   more  than 
death,   stood   before   me.     Oh,  she   maddened   me,    5 
my  mother  did,  she  maddened  me — she  threw  me  to 
where  I  am  at  one  breath.     The  gods  cannot  replace 
me  where  I  was,  nor  atone  to  me,  nor  console  me, 
nor  restore    my    senses.      To  whom    can    I  fly;  to 
whom  can  I  open  my  heart;  to  whom  speak  plainly?  10 
There  was  upon  the  earth  a  man  I   could  converse 
with,  and   fear  nothing;  there  was  a  woman,  too,  I 
could  love,  and  fear  nothing.     What  a  soldier,  what 
a  Roman,  was  thy  father,  ()  my  young  bride!     How 
could  those  who  never  saw  him  have  discoursed  so  15 
rightly  upon  virtue! 

I'ipsa/iia.  These  words  cool  my  breast  like  press- 
ing his  urn  against  it.  He  was  brave:  shallTiberius 
want  courage? 

Tiberius.    My  enemies  scorn  me.      I  am  a  garland  20 
dropped   from   a   triumphal  car,  and   taken  up  and 
looked    on   for   the    place    I    occupied;    and    tossed 
away    and     laughed    at.       Senators!     laugh,    laugh! 
Your    merits    may    be    yet    re-warded — be    of    good 
cheer!     Counsel  me,  in  your  wisdom,  what  services  25 
I  can  render  you,  conscript  fathers! 

I'if-sania.  This  seems  mockery:  Tiberius  did  not 
smile  so,  once. 

7/7v.vvV/.v.   They  had  not  then  congratulated  me. 

I'ipsania.    On  what?  30 

Tiberius.  And  it  was  not  because  she  was  beauti- 
ful, as  they  thought  her,  and  virtuous,  as  I  know 


TIBERIUS  AND    VIPSANIA.  51 

she  is;  but  because  the  flowers  on  the  altar  were  to 
be  tied  together  by  my  heart-string.  On  this  they 
congratulated  me.  Their  day  will  come.  Their 
sons  and  daughters  are  what  I  would  wish  them  to 
5  be:  worthy  to  succeed  them. 

Vipsania.  Where   is  that   quietude,  that   resigna- 
tion, that  sanctity,  that  heart  of  true  tenderness? 
Tiberius.  Where  is  my  love? — my  love? 
Vipsania.  Cry  not  thus  aloud,  Tiberius!  there  is 

loan  echo  in  the  place.  Soldiers  and  slaves  may 
burst  in  upon  us. 

Tiberius.  And  see  my  tears?  There  is  no  echo, 
Vipsania;  why  alarm  and  shake  me  so?  We  are  too 
high  here  for  the  echoes:  the  city  is  below  us. 

15  Methinks  it  trembles  and  totters:  would  it  did! 
from  the  marble  quays  of  the  Tiber  to  this  rock. 
There  is  a  strange  buzz  and  murmur  in  my  brain; 
but  I  should  listen  so  intensely,  I  should  hear  the 
rattle  of  its  roofs,  and  shout  with  joy. 

20  Vipsania.  Calm,  O  my  life!  calm  this  horrible 
transport. 

Tiberius.  Spake  I  so  loud?  Did  I  indeed  then  and 
send  my  voice  after  a  lost  sound,  to  bring  it  back; 
thou  fanciedest  it  an  echo?  Wilt  not  thou  laugh 

25  with  me,  as  thou  wert  wont  to  do,  at  such  an  error? 
What  was  I  saying  to  thee,  my  tender  love,  when  I 
commanded — I  know  not  whom — to  stand  back,  on 
pain  of  death?  Why  starest  thou  on  me  in  such  agony? 
Have  I  hurt  thy  fingers,  child?  I  loose  them;  now 

30 let  me  look!  Thou  turnest  thine  eyes  away  from 
me.  Oh!  oh!  I  hear  my  crime!  Immortal  gods!  I 
cursed  then  audibly,  and  before  the  sun,  my  mother! 


aufc  Ifoenrp  of  /IDelctal. 

Wolfgang.   Old  man,  thou   knowest,  I  doubt  not, 
why  thou  art  brought  before  me. 

Henry.   For  having  been  the  preserver  of  Arnold. 

Wolfgang.   For    harbouring    and    concealing    an 
outlaw.  5 

Henry.  We  all  are  outlaws. 

Wolfgang.    What!  and  confess  it? 

Henry.    Where  there   is  a  law  for  none,  what  else 
can  we  be  ? 

Wolfgang.   In  consideration  of  thy  age  and  here- 10 
tofore  good  repute,  our   emperor  in   his  clemency 
would    remit  the  sentence   passed   on   thy   offence, 
taking  only  thy  plough  and  oxen  in  punishment  of 
disobedience. 

Henry.    Ploughs   and  oxen  are    not    instruments  15 
and    furtherers    of    disobedience.      Why  were  they 
taken  from  me  before?     Had  they  never  been  seized 
by  his  Apostolic  Majesty,  and  had  not  the  great  man 
Gcssler  told  me  that   I,  a   hoary  traitor,  should  be 
yoked   in   place   of  them,  my   valiant  son  had  never  2o 
cursed  him  and  his  master. 

Wolfgang.    I    turn   pale   with    horror.      Curse    the 
right-hand  of  tin:  Almighty  ! 

Henry.   \Ve    were    told    that   Man   was  his   image, 
long  before   we   ever  heard   that  a  dry  marten-skin  25 
on   the   shoulder,  and   a  score  of  cut  pebbles  on  the 


WOLFGANG  AND  HENRY  OF  MELCTAL.        53 

head,  made  any  creature  his  right-hand.  This  right- 
hand  does  little  else  than,  like  children,  strip  the 
image,  or,  just  as  they  do,  break  the  head  of  one 
against  the  head  of  another. 

5      Wolfgang.  What  particular  hardship  couldstthou 
complain  of? 

Henry.  Only  that,  whenever  there  was  a  fine 
day,  my  oxen  were  taken  for  the  emperor's  use,  and 
that  my  boy  was  forced  to  guide  them. 

10      Wolfgang.   You  had  many  days  left. 

Henry.  Ay,  verily;  all  winter,  from  the  first  of 
November  to  the  first  of  April.  While  the  snow  was 
from  five  to  three  feet  deep,  I  might  plough,  sow, 
and  harrow.  A  green  turf  was  an  imperial  rescript; 

15  and  I  never  saw  one  in  the  morning  but  I  met 
a  soldier  at  my  gate  ere  noon,  and  my  two  poor 
beasts  were  unhoused. 

Wolfgang.  Factious  man!  the  mildest  govern- 
ments in  the  world  have  always  exacted  this  trifle  in 

20  payment  for  their  protection.  Where  there  is  little 
coin,  there  must  be  labour  or  its  produce;  and  how 
much  better  is  it  to  give  the  half,  or  rather  more, 
to  a  lawful  master,  than  the  whole  to  robbers!  But 
indeed  this  half  is  not  given:  all  in  right  is  Caesar's. 

25  Thy  Bible  says,  "  Give  unto  Caesar  that  which  is  Coa- 
sar's,  and  unto  Clod  that  which  is  God's."  It  does 
not  say,  "  Keep  anything,"  which  it  would  doif  any- 
thing remained.  Dost  whistle,  rogue? 

Henry.   I  cry  you  mercy,   Sir  Wolfgang.     About 

30  the  Scripture  I  dare  argue  nothing;  but  about  the 
thieves, — what  thieves  have  we  here?  Who  is  dis- 
posed to  take  away  kid  or  pullet  from  us?  Cannot 


54        WOLFGANG  AND  HENRY  OF  MELCTAL. 

we,  who  are  in  our  own  houses,  defend  them  as 
well  as  those  who  are  some  hundred  miles  off? 
And,  when  we  cannot,  is  not  our  neighbour  as  ready 
to  help  us  as  they  are?  Yet  our  neighbour  would 
blush  to  ask  a  spoonful  of  salt  for  doing  it.  5 

Wolfgang.  Malcontent!  what  woulclst  thou  say 
if  thy  master  should  forbid  thee  to  turn  thy  barley 
into  malt,  or  to  plant  thy  garden,  or  any  plot  of  it, 
with  hops? 

Henry.    I  dare  not  imagine  this  wrong.     To  order  10 
me    how    to    crop    my    garden   or    how  to  mix  my 
tankard!    To  forbid  the  earth  to  give  its  increase  in 
due  season  is  the  heaviest  and  the  rarest  curse  of 
God.     Never,  I  trust,  will  our  nation  be  so  heart- 
less as  to  endure  a  like  interdict  from  the  wrath  of  15 
man. 

Wolfgang.  There  is  no  danger:  nevertheless,  why 
not  profit  by  example,  and  avoid  the  chances  of  mis- 
chief? The  tortoise,  well  protected  as  it  is,  draws 
in  its  head  at  the  touch  of  a  child.  20 

Henry.  I  will  do  the  same  when  I  am  a  tortoise. 
But  we  Swit/.ers  have  our -rights  and  privileges:  we 
may  kill  even  a  hare  if  we  find  him  in  our  corn,  pro- 
vided the  land  be  our  freehold.  What  nation  in 
Christendon  can  say  the  same,  beyond  these  11101111-25 
tains?  We  alone  arc  raised  to  an  equality  with  the 
beasts  and  birds;  we  alone  can  leave  our  country; 
we  alone  pine  and  perish  if  we  are  long  absent 
from  it. 

Wolfgang.    Is  that  a  privilege?  3« 

Henry.  No,  my  lord  judge:  it  may  be  a  want,  a 
weakness;  but  those  who  are  subject  to  it  are 


WOLFGANG  AND  HENRY  OF  MELCTAL.        55 

exempt  from  many  others.  Of  what  are  they  not 
capable  in  defence  of  their  country,  to  whom  she  is 
so  dear!  We  see  our  parents  and  children  carried 
to  the  grave;  we  lose  sight  of  them,  and  bear  it 
5  manfully:  on  losing  sight  of  our  country  our  hearts 
melt  away. 

Wolfgang.   Brave  men  bear  it.     I  left  my  country 
to  perform   my  duties  in  this;  and  what  country  is 
pleasanter  than  Austria,  or  more  productive  of  cat- 
ro tie  and  game,  of  river-fish  and  capons? 

Henry.  All  men  have  a  birth-place,  Sir  Wolfgang; 
but  all  men  have  not  a  country.  Nay,  there  are 
some  who  have  it  not,  and  who  possess  almost  half 
a  province,  with  tolls  and  mills  and  chases  and 
15  courts  and  prisons,  and  whatever  else  can  make  the 
great  contented. 

Wolfgang.   I   should    be   censurable  if  I  listened 

longer  to  such  idle  and  wild  discourse.     The  people 

of  Burgundy  are   subject  to  more   hardships   than 

2othou  art;  so  are  those  of  Swabiaand  of  France.    Be 

obedient  and  grateful,  seeing  that  others  fare  worse. 

Henry.   If  my  ear  is  frost-bitten,  your  worship's 

toe  may  be  frost-bitten  off  and  never  cure  me. 

Wolfgang.   Be  comforted  and  satisfied.      The  out- 
25  lawry  of  thy  son  Arnold  is  reversed,  on  payment  of 
a  slender  fine  for  the    proclamation    of    it,  and    of 
another  for  its  annulment,  not  much  heavier. 

At  the  same  time  I  am  also  commanded  to  de- 
nounce unto  thee  that,  if  ever  thou  secst  thy  son 
30 again,  thou  be  deprived  of  eye-sight. 

Henry.   I  am  deprived  of  eye-sight  if  I  do  not  see 


56        WOLFGAKG  AXD  II1-XKY  OP  MELCTAL. 

him.     Of  sun  ami   snows  \ve  have  seen  enough  at 
seventy.     Ho!  Arnold!  Arnold!   help! 

Arnold.  Father!  who  hurts  tliee  ?  Who  threatens 
thee?  Off,  gentlemen!  Off,  strangers!  Off,  soldiers! 
Slaves,  miscreants,  Austrians,  stand  off!  5 

Wolfgang-      Murder  in  my  presence! 

Henry.  They  bleed  all  five  under  thy  yew-stick — 
one  is  dying — I  was  faint:  I  am  not  so  now;  fly,  in 
the  name  of  God!  Again,  I  pray  thee,  Arnold,  if  thou 
lovest  thy  father,  go,  begone!  I  command  thee.  JQ 

Arnold.  O  God!  I  heard  thy  name  and  was  dis- 
obedient: my  father  has  commanded  and  I  obey — 
forgive  me,  O  my  God! 

ll'olfgang.   Seize  him,  the  traitor.      Dastards — but 
perhaps  it  may  be  better    to  catch    him    anywhere  15 
else.    Who  would  have  thought  it!  fair  as  morning, 
ardent  as  noon,    and   terrible    as    midnight  on   the 
shoals.      Thou  at  least  canst  not  run  so  fast. 

Henry.    I  hope  I  cannot. 

irolfgang.    Anastasius,    call    the  priest,  Reginald  20 
Grot,  to  strengthen  him  with  admonition,  and  Sigis- 
mund  I.ockhart,  the  greffier,    to  translate    the  sen- 
tence  into  the  vulgar  tongue;  and  to  read  it  before 
the  people,    in  the   name  of  his   Apostolic    Majesty 
the  Kmperor  and  King,  Albert,  by  the  grace  of  God,  25 
et  cetera ;  and  in  the   public  square   to  provide    that 
the  sentence  be  well  and  duly  executed,  forthwith. 

Hfnry.    Send  also  for  the   great    man  Gessler;   tell 
him  to  come  and  see  a  sight:   he  has  not  many  more 
such   to  see.      Welcome,    good    Reginald!    welcomes*) 
too,  my   worthy  master  I.ockhart!      Come,  thy  band 
sits  well  enough,  let  it  rest;  begin. 


WOLFGANG  AND  HENRY  OF  MELCTAL.         57 

Lockhart.  The  instrument  must  be  translated, — 
a  good  hour's  labour  yet,  to  the  ablest  clerk. 

Henry.   Reginald,    thou    pressest    my    hand,    and 
sayest  nothing.      Dust  thou  turn  thy  back  upon  me? 
5  Is  this  thy  comfort? 

Reginald.  There  is  a  Comforter  who  has  given  thee 
strength,  and  taken  mine  from  me;  keep  it,  good 
old  man;  do  my  tears  hurt  thee? 

Henry.   They  do,  indeed;  go  home,  blessed  soul! 

10 1  never  knew  thy  temper  until  now.  Many  have 
turned  away  from  me  before,  but  none  to  hide  their 
compassion  at  my  sufferings.  What  a  draught  of 
sight  have  I  taken  with  my  lord  judge  Wolfgang! 
It  lasts  me  yet,  and  will  last  me  for  life.  O  my 

15  youngeagle,  my  own  Arnold  !  I  shall  never  see  thee 
more  upon  the  rocks  of  Uri;  never  shall  I  tremble 
at  thy  hardihood,  nor  press  thee  to  my  bosom  for 
reproaching  thee  too  much  about  it.  But  I  shall 
hear  thy  carols  in  the  woods  of  Underwald.  Let 

20  them  be  blithe  as  usual;  let  them  be  blither  still, 
for  1  shall  more  want  pastime,  and  shall  listen  for 
sweet  sounds  all  day  long.  Do  not  ask  me  again, 
as  in  the  Lay  of  the  Leap,  whether  thou  hast  given 
me  the  heart-ache.  I  was  always  in  thy  songs  be- 

25  fore  they  ended,  even  where  spring  and  summer, 
even  where  youth  and  fair  maidens,  were  discoursed 
of.  Prythee,  do  not  go  on  so.  Above  all,  1  charge 
thee,  Arnold,  never  say,  "  O  my  poor  father!  art 
thou  blind  for  me!"  I  was  fancying  my  Arnold  at 

30  my  side.  Foolish  old  man,  with  my  eyes  yet  open, 
and  their  two  balls  unbroken.  Is  this  the  place? 
Blow  away,  boys!  the  weather  is  misty;  it  will 


58         WOLFGANG  A.VD  HENRY  OF  MELCTAL. 

not  light:  this  arrow  head  is  too  blunt;  have  you 
nothing  better?  My  old  eyes  are  sunken  and  tough. 
Ay,  that  seems  sharper:  put  it  just  under  the  piece 
of  mountain-ash;  it  will  soon  redden  there.  Well 
done,  boy,  that  is  right.  5 


Soutbes  ant>  Xant>or. 

Landor.  And  now  open  your  Paradise  Lost. 
Southey.   Shall   we  begin   with  it   immediately? — 
or  shall  we  listen  a  little  while  to  the  woodlark? 
He  seems  to  know  what  we  are  about;  for  there  is  a 
5  sweetness,  a  variety,  and  a  gravity  in  his  cadences, 
befitting  the  place  and  theme.     Another   time  we 
might  afford  the  whole  hour  to  him. 

Landor.  The  woodlark,  the  nightingale,  and  the 
ringdove  have  made  me  idle  for  many,  even  when  I 

10  had  gone  into  the  fields  on  purpose  to  gather  fresh 
materials  for  composition.  A  little  thing  turns  me 
from  one  idleness  to  another.  More  than  once, 
when  I  have  taken  out  my  pencil  to  fix  an  idea  on 
paper,  the  smell  of  the  cedar,  held  by  me  uncon- 

15  sciously  across  the  nostrils,  hath  so  absorbed  the 
senses,  that  what  I  was  about  to  write  down  has  van- 
ished, altogether  and  irrecoverably.  This  vexed 
me;  for  although  we  may  improve  a  first  thought, 
and  generally  do,  yet  if  we  lose  it,  we  seldom  or  never  v 

20  can  find  another  so  good  to  replace  it.  The  latter- 
math  has  less  substance,  succulence,  and  fragrance 
than  the  summer  crop.  I  dare  not  trust  my  memory 

^  for  a  moment  with  anything  of  my  own:  it  is  more 
faithful  in  storing  up  what  is  another's.  But  am  I 

25  not  doing  at  this  instant  something  like  what  I 
told  you  about  the  pencil?  If  the  loss  of  my  own 


60  SOU  THEY  AXD  LAN  DOR. 

thoughts  vexed  me,  how  much  more  will  the  loss  of 
yours!     Now,  pray,  begin  in  good  earnest. 

Southey*  Before  we  pursue  the  details  of  a  poem, 
it  is  customary  to  look  at  it  as  a  whole,  and  to  con- 
sider what  is  the  scope  and  tendency,  or  what  is  usu-    5 
ally  called  the  moral.     JJut  surely  it  is  a  silly  and 
stupid  business  to  talk  mainly  about  the  moral  of  a 
poem,   unless  it  professedly   be    a    fable.     A    good 
epic,  a  good  tragedy,  a  good  comedy,  will  inculcate 
several.      Homer  does  not  represent   the  anger  of  10 
Achilles  as  being  fatal  or  disastrous  to  that  hero, 
which  would  be  what  critics  call   poetical   justice; 
but  he  demonstrates    in    the    greater    part    of    the 
Iliad  the  evil  effects  of  arbitrary  power,  in  alienating 
an  elevated  soul  from    the   cause    of   his    country.  15 
In  the  Odyssea  he  shows  that  every  obstacle  yields 
to  constancy  and  perseverance;  yet  he  does  not  pro- 
pose to  show  it:  and  there  are  other  morals  no  less 
obvious.      Why  should  the  machinery  of  the  longest 
poem  be  drawn  out  to  establish  an  obvious  truth,  20 
which  a  single  verse  would  exhibit  more  plainly,  and 
impress  more  memorably?     Both  in  epic  and   dra- 
matic poetry  it  js  action,  and  not  moral,  that  is  first 
demanded.     The  feelings  and  exploits  of  the  prin- 
cipal  agent    should    excite    the    principal    interest.  25 
The  two  greatest  of  human   compositions  are   here 
defective:    I    mean    the    Iliad  and     Paradise    Lost. 
Agamemnon  is   leader    of    the  confederate   Greeks 
before  Troy,  to  avenge  the  cause  of  Menelaus;  yet 
not  only  Achilles  and  I  Homed  on  his  side,  but  Hec-3<j 
tor  and  Sarpedon  on  the  opposite,  interest  us   more 
than  the   "king  of  men,"  the  avenger,  or  than  his 


SOUTHEY  AND  LANDOR.  61 

brother,  the  injured  prince,  about  whom  they  all  are 
fighting.  In  the  Paradise  Lost  no  principal  char- 
acter seems  to  have  been  intended.  There  is 
neither  truth  nor  wit  however  in  saying  that  Satan 
5  is  hero  of  the  piece,  unless,  as  is  usually  the  case  in 
human  life,  he  is  the  greatest  hero  who  gives  the 
widest  sway  to  the  worst  passions.  It  is  Adam  who 
acts  and  suffers  most,  and  on  whom  the  conse- 
quences have  most  influence.  This  constitutes  him 

10  the  main  character;  although  Eve  is  the  more  inter- 
esting, Satan  the  more  energetic,  and  on  whom  the 
greater  force  of  poetry  is  displayed.  The  Creator 
and  his  angels  are  quite  secondary. 

Landor.   Must  we    not   confess  that    every    epic 

15  hitherto  has  been  defective  in  plan;  and  even  that 
each,  until  the  time  of  Tasso,  was  more  so  than  its 
predecessor?  Such  stupendous  genius,  so  much 
fancy,  so  much  eloquence,  so  much  vigour  of  intel- 
lect, never  were  united  as  in  Paradise  Lost.  Yet  it 

20  is  neither  so  correct  nor  so  varied  as  the  Iliad,  nor, 
however  important  the  action,  so  interesting.  The 
moral  itself  is  the  reason  why  it  wearies  even  those 
who  insist  on  the  necessity  of  it.  Founded  on  an 
event  believed  by  nearly  all  nations,  certainly  by  all 

25  who  read  the  poem,  it  lays  down  a  principle  which 
concerns  every  man's  welfare,  and  a  fact  which 
every  man's  experience  confirms:  that  great  and  ir- 
remediable misery  may  arise  from  apparently  small 
offences.  15ut  will  any  one  say  that,  in  a  poetical 

30  view,  our  certainty  of  moral  truth  in  this  position 
is  an  equivalent  for  the  uncertainty  which  of  the 
agents  is  what  critics  call  the  hero  of  the  piece? 


62  SOU  THEY  AND   LAN  DOR. 

Southey.  We  are  informed  in  the  beginning  of 
the  Iliad  that  the  poet,  or  the  Muse  for  him,  is 
about  to  sing  the  anger  of  Achilles,  with  the  disas- 
ters it  brought  down  on  the  Greeks.  But  these  dis- 
asters are  of  brief  continuance,  and  this  anger  ter-  5 
minates  most  prosperously.  Another  fit  of  anger 
from  another  motive,  less  ungenerous  and  less  self- 
ish, supervenes;  and  Hector  falls  because  Patroc- 
lus  had  fallen.  The  son  of  Peleus,  whom  the  poet 
in  the  beginning  proposed  for  his  hero,  drops  sud- 10 
denly  out  of  sight,  abandoning  a  noble  cause  from 
an  ignoble  resentment.  Milton,  in  regard  to  the 
discontinuity  of  agency,  is  in  the  same  predicament 
as  Homer. 

Let  us  now  take  him  more   in   detail.      He  soon  15 
begins  to  give  the  learned  and  less  obvious  significa- 
tion to  English  words.      In  the  sixth  line, — 

That  on  the  secret  top,  etc. 
Here  secret  is  in  the  same  sense  as  Virgil's 

Secrclosque  pios,  his  dantem  jura  Catonem.  20 

Would  it  not  have  been  better  to  omit  the  fourth 
and  fifth  verses,  as  encumbrances,  and  deadeners 
of  the  harmony;  and  for  the  same  reason,  the  four- 
teenth, fifteenth,  and  sixteenth? 

That  with  no  middle  flight  intends  to  soar  25 

Above  the  Aonian  mount,  while  it  pursues 
*  Thirds  unattcmptcd  yet  in  pruse  or  rhyme. 

Landor.  Certainly  much  better:  for  the  harmony 
of  the  sentence  is  complete  without  them,  and  they 
make  it  gasp  for  breath.  Supposing  the  fact  to  be  30 


SOU  THEY  AND  LANDOR.  63 

true,  the  mention  of  it  is  unnecessary  and  un- 
poetical.  Little  does  it  become  Milton  to  run  in 
debt  with  Ariosto  for  his 

Cose  non  dette  mai  ne  in  prosa  o  in  rima. 

5  Prosaic  enough  in  a  rhymed  romance,  for  such  is  the 
Orlando  with  all  its  spirit  and  all  its  beauty,  and  far 
beneath  the  dignity  of  the  epic. 

Southey.   Beside,    it   interrupts    the    intensity    of 
the  poet's  aspiration  in  the  words, — 

10  And  chiefly  thou,  O  Spirit ! 

Again:  I  would  rather  see  omitted  the  five  which 
follow  that  beautiful  line, — 

Dovelike  satst  brooding  on  the  vast  abyss. 

Landor.   The   ear,    however   accustomed    to    the 

15  rhythm  of  these  sentences,  is  relieved  of  a  burden 
by  rejecting  them;  and  they  are  not  wanted  for 
anything  they  convey. 

Southey.   I  am  sorry  that  Milton  (v.  34)  did  not 
always  keep  separate  the  sublime  Satan  and  "  the 

20 infernal  Serpent."  The  thirty-eighth  verse  is  the 
first  hendecasyllabic  in  the  poem.  It  is  much  to  be 
regretted,  I  think,  that  he  admits  this  metre  into 
epic  poetry.  It  is  often  very  efficient  in  the  dra- 
matic, at  least  in  Shakspeare,  but  hardly  ever  in 

25  Milton.  He  indulges  in  it  much  less  fluently  in  the 
Paradise  Lost  than  in  the  Paradise  Regained.  In 
the  seventy-third  verse  he  tells  us  that  the  rebel- 
lious angels  are 

As  far  removed  from  God  and  light  of  heaven 

30  As  from  the  centre  thrice  to  the  utmost  pole. 


64  SOUTHEY  AXD  LAX  DOR. 

Not  very  far  for  creatures  who  could  have  measured 
all  that  distance,  and  a  much  greater,  by  a  single 
act  of  the  will. 

V.  188  ends  with  the  word  repair;  191  with  despair. 

335.  Nor  did  they  not  perceive  the  evil  plight  5 

In  -which  they  nitre. 

Landor.  We  are  oftener  in  such  evil  plight  of 
floundering  in  the  prosaic  slough  about  your  neigh- 
bourhood than  in  Bunhill  Fields. 

360.  And  Powers  that  erst  in  heaven  sat  on  thrones.  10 

Excuse  my  asking  why  you,  and  indeed  most  poets 
in  most  places,  make  a  monosyllable  of  heaven?  I 
observe  you  treat  spirit  in  the  same  manner;  and 
although  not  peri/,  yet  perilous.  I  would  not  insist 
at  all  times  on  an  iambic  foot,  neither  would  I  de-  15 
prive  these  words  of  their  right  to  a  participation 
in  it. 

Southey.  I  have  sei/ed  all  fair  opportunities  of 
introducing  the  tnbjrajih.ys,  and  these  are  the  words 
that  most  easily  afford  one.  1  have  turned  over  the  20 
leaves  as  far  as  verse  584,  where  1  wish  he  had 
written  Damascus  (as  he  does  elsewhere)  for  Da- 
)nasii\  which  never  was  the  Knglish  appellation. 
Beside,  he  sinks  the  last  vowel  in  Meroc  in  Paradise 
Regained,  which  follows;  and  should  consistently  25 
have  done  the  same  in  Damasco,  following  the  prac- 
tice of  the  Italian  poets,  which  certainly  is  better 
than  leaving  the  vowels  open  and  gaping  at  one 
another. 

540,.  Anon  they  move  yj 

In  perfect  phalanx  to  the  Dorian  mood. 


SOU  THEY  AND  LANDOR.  65 

Thousands  of  years  before  there  were  phalanxes, 
schools  of  music,  or  Dorians. 

Landor.  Never  mind  the  Dorians,  but  look  at 
Satan: — 

5      571.  And  now  his  heart 

Distends  with  pride,  and,  hardening  in  his  strength, 

Glories! 

What  an  admirable  pause  is  here!     I  wish  he  had 
not  ended  one  verse  with  "his  heart,"  and  the  next 
10  with  " ///V  strength. " 

Southey.  The  fourth  book  contains  several  imper- 
fections. The  six  verses  after  165  efface  the  de- 
lightful impression  we  had  just  received. 

181.  At  one  slight  bound  high  overleapt  all  bound. 

15  Such  a  play  on  words,  so  grave  a  pun,  is  unpardon- 
able: and  such  a  prodigious  leap  is  ill  represented 
by  the  feat  of  a  wolf  in  a  sheepfold;  and  still  worse 
by 

188.  A  thief  bent  to  unhoarJ  {\\zcash 

20  Of  some  rich  burgher,  whose  substantial  doors, 

Cross-bar  r'd  and  bolted  fast,  fear  no  assault, 
In  at  the  window  climbs,  or  o'er  the  tiles. 

Landor.   This  "in  at  the  window"  is  very  unlike 
the  "  bound   high   above  all    bound  "   and   climbing 
25  "  o'er  the  tiles"  is  the  practice  of  a  more  deliberate 
burglar. 

193.  So  since  into  his  church  lewd  hirelings  climb. 

I    must    leave    the    lewd   hirelings    where    I   find 


66  SOU  THEY  AND  LAN  DOR. 

them:  they  are  too  many  for  me.     I  would  gladly 
have  seen  omitted  all  between  verses  165  and  205. 
Southey. 

252.  Betwixt  them  lawns  or  level  downs,  and  flocks 

Grazing  the  tender  herb. 

There  had  not  yet  been  time  for  flocks,  or  even  for   5 
one  flock. 

Landor.  At  verse  297  commences  a  series  of 
verses  so  harmonious  that  my  ear  is  impatient  of 
any  other  poetry  for  several  days  after  I  have  read 
them.  I  mean  those  which  begin, —  10 

For  contemplation  he  and  valour  formed, 
For  softness  she  and  sweet  attractive  grace; 

and  ending  with, — 

And  sweet,  reluctant,  amorous  delay. 

Southey.  Here,  indeed,  is  the  triumph  of  our  15 
language,  and  I  should  say  of  our  poetry,  if,  in 
your  preference  of  Shakspearc,  you  could  endure 
my  saying  it.  But,  since  we  seek  faults  rather 
than  beauties  this  morning,  tell  me  whether  you 
are  quite  contented  with, —  20 

She,  as  a  veil,  down  to  the  slender  waist 
Her  unadorned  golden  tresses  wore, 
Dishevell'd,  hut  in  wanton  ringlets  waved 
As  the  vine  curls  her  tendrils;   which  implied 
Subjection,  i>ul  required  with  gentle  sway,  25 

And  by  her  yielded,  l<y  him  l<est  receii'fd. 

Landor.  Stopping  there,  you  break  the  link  of 
harmony  just  above  the  richest  jewel  that  poetry 
ever  wore: — 


.»**•« 


SOUTHEY  AND  LANDOR. 

Yielded  with  coy  submission,  modest  pride, 
And  sweet,  reluctant,  amorous  delay. 

I  would  rather  have  written  these  two  lines  than 
all  the  poetry  that  has  been  written  since  Milton's 
5  time  in  all  the  regions  of  the  earth.  We  shall  see 
again  things  equal  in  their  way  to  the  best  of  them; 
but  here  the  sweetest  of  images  and  sentiments  is 
seized  and  carried  far  away  from  all  pursuers. 

V 

Southey.  We  open  the  twelfth  book:  we  see  land 

«o  at  last. 

Landor.  Yes,  and  dry  land  too.  Happily  the 
twelfth  is  the  shortest.  In  a  continuation  of  six 
hundred  and  twenty-five  flat  verses,  we  are  pre- 
pared for  our  passage  over  several  such  deserts 

15  of  almost  equal  extent,  and  still  more  frequent,  in 
Paradise  Regained.  But,  at  the  close  of  the 
poem  now  under  our  examination,  there  is  a  brief 
union  of  the  sublime  and  the  pathetic  for  about 
twenty  lines,  beginning  with  "All  in  bright  array." 

20  We  are  comforted  by  the  thought  that  Provi- 
dence had  not  abandoned  our  first  parents,  but  was 
still  their  guide;  that,  although  they  had  lost  Para- 
dise, they  were  not  debarred  from  Eden;  that, 
although  the  angel  had  left  them  solitary  and  sor- 

25  rowing,  he  left  them  "yet  in  peace."  The  ter- 
mination is  proper  and  complete. 

In  Johnson's  estimate  I  do  not  perceive  the  un- 
fairness of  which  many  have  complained.  Among 
his  first  observations  is  this:  "  Scarcely  any  recital 

30  is   wished   shorter  for  the  sake   of  quickening  the 


68  SOU  THEY  AXD  LAN  DOR. 

main  action."  This  is  untrue:  were  it  true,  why 
remark,  as  he  does  subsequently,  that  the  poem  is 
mostly  read  as  a  duty,  not  as  a  pleasure.  I  think  it 
unnecessary  to  say  a  word  on  the  moral  or  the  sub- 
ject; for  it  requires  no  genius  to  select  a  grand  5 
one.  The  heaviest  poems  may  be  appended  to  the 
loftiest  themes.  Andreini  and  others,  whom  Milton 
turned  over  and  tossed  aside,  are  evidences.  It 
requires  a  large  stock  of  patience  to  travel  through 
Vida;  and  we  slacken  in  our  march,  although  ac-  10 
companied  with  the  livelier  sing-song  of  Sannazar. 
Let  any  reader,  who  is  not  by  many  degrees  more 
pious  than  poetical,  be  asked  whether  he  felt  a 
very  great  interest  in  the  greatest  actors  of  Para- 
dise  Lost,  in  what  is  either  said  or  done  by  the  15 
angels  or  the  Creator;  and  whether  the  humblest 
and  weakest  does  not  most  attract  him.  Johnson's 
remarks  on  the  allegory  of  Milton  are  just  and 
wise;  so  are  those  on  the  non-materiality  or  non- 
immateriality  of  Satan.  These  faults  might  have  20 
been  easily  avoided;  but  Milton,  with  all  his 
strength,  chose  rather  to  make  antiquity  his  shield- 
bearer,  and  to  come  forward  under  a  protection 
which  he  might  proudly  have  disdained. 

SoiitJiey.    You  will   not  countenance  the  critic,  nor  25 
Dryden   whom    he    quotes,    in    saying    that    Milton 
"saw  Nature  through  the  spectacles  of  books"? 

LanJor.   Unhappily,    both    he     and    Dryden     saw 
Nature  from  between   the   houses  of    Fleet    Street. 
If  ever  there  was  a  poet  who  knew   her  well,   and  30 
described   her  in  all   her  loveliness,  it  was   Milton. 
In    the  Paradise    Lost  how  profuse    in    his  descrip- 


SOU  THEY  AND  LAN  DOR.  69 

tions,    as    became    the    time   and    place!      In   the 
Allegro  and  Penseroso  how  exquisite  and  select ! 

Johnson  asks,  "What  Englishman  can  take 
delight  in  transcribing  passages  which,  if  they 
5  lessen  the  reputation  of  Milton,  diminish  in  some 
degree  the  honour  of  our  country!"  I  hope  the 
honour  of  our  country  will  always  rest  on  truth  and 
justice.  It  is  not  by  concealing  what  is  wrong 
that  anything  right  can  be  accomplished.  There 

10 is  no  pleasure  in  transcribing  such  passages;  but 
there  is  great  utility.  Inferior  writers  exercise  no 
interest,  attract  no  notice,  and  serve  no  purpose. 
Johnson  has  himself  done  great  good  by  exposing 
great  faults  in  great  authors.  His  criticism  on 

15  Milton's  highest  work  is  the  most  valuable  of  all 
his  writings.  He  seldom  is  erroneous  in  his  cen- 
sures; but  he  never  is  sufficiently  excited  to  ad- 
miration of  what  is  purest  and  highest  in  poetry. 
He  has  this  in  common  with  common  minds  (from 

20  which,  however,  his  own  is  otherwise  far  remote), 
to  be  pleased  with  what  is  nearly  on  a  level  with 
him,  and  to  drink  as  contentedly  a  heady  bever- 
age, with  its  discoloured  froth,  as  what  is  of  the 
best  vintage.  He  is  morbid,  not  only  in  his  weak- 

25  ness,  but  in  his  strength.  There  is  much  to  par- 
don, much  to  pity,  much  to  respect,  and  no  little 
to  admire,  in  him. 

After    I    have   been    reading  the   Paradise   Lost, 
I  can  take  up  no  other  poet  with  satisfaction.     I 

30 seem  to  have  left  the  music  of  Handel  for  the 
music  of  the  streets,  or  at  best  for  drums  and  fifes. 
Although  in  Shakspeare  there  are  occasional 


7°  SOUTH 'EV  AND  LANDOR. 

bursts  of  harmony  no  less  sublime;  yet,  if  there 
were  many  such  in  continuation,  it  would  be  hurt- 
ful, not  only  in  comedy,  but  also  in  tragedy.  The 
greater  part  should  be  equable  and  conversational. 
I  For,  if  the  excitement  were  the  same  at  the  begin-  5 
\ning,  the  middle,  and  the  end;  if  consequently 
(as  must  be  the  case)  the  language  and  versifica- 
tion were  equally  elevated  throughout, —any  long 
poem  would  be  a  bad  one,  and,  worst  of  all,  a 
drama.  In  our  English  heroic  verse,  such  as  10 
Milton  has  composed  it,  there  is  a  much  greater 
variety  of  feet,  of  movement,  of  musical  notes 
and  bars,  than  in  the  Greek  heroic;  and  the  final 
sounds  are  incomparably  more  diversified.  My 
predilection  in  youth  was  on  the  side  of  Homer;  15 
for  I  had  read  the  Iliad  twice,  and  the  Odyssea  once, 
before  the  Paradise  Lost.  Averse  as  I  am  to  every- 
thing relating  to  theology,  and  especially  to  the 
view  of  it  thrown  open  by  this  poem,  I  recur  to  it 
incessantly  as  the  noblest  specimen  in  the  world  of  20 
eloquence,  harmony,  and  genius. 

Southey.  Learned  and  sensible  men  are  of  opinion 
that  the  Paradise  Lost  should  have  ended  with 
the  words,  "Providence  their  guide."  It  might 
very  well  have  ended  there;  but  we  are  unwilling  25 
to  lose  sight  all  at  once  of  our  first  parents.  Only 
one  more  glimpse  is  allowed  us:  we  are  thankful 
for  it.  We  have  seen  the  natural  tears  they 
dropped;  we  have  seen  that  they  wiped  them  soon. 
And  why  was  it?  Not  because  the  world  was  all  30 
before  them;  but  because  there  still  remained  for 
them,  under  the  guidance  of  Providence,  not  in- 


SOU  THEY  AND  LAN  DOR.  7* 

deed  the  delights  of  Paradise,  now  lost  for  ever, 
but  the  genial  clime  and  calm  repose  of  Eden. 

Landor.  It  has  been  the  practice  in  late  years  to 
supplant  one  dynasty  by  another,  political  and 
5  poetical.  Within  our  own  memory,  no  man  had 
ever  existed  who  preferred  Lucretius  on  the  whole 
to  Virgil,  or  Dante  to  Homer.  But  the  great 
Florentine,  in  these  days,  is  extolled  high  above 
the  Grecian  and  Milton.  Few,  I  believe,  have 

10 studied  him  more  attentively  or  with  more  delight 
than  I  have;  but  beside  the  prodigious  dispro- 
portion of  the  bad  to  the  good,  there  are  funda- 
mental defects  which  there  are  not  in  either  of  the 
other  two.  In  the  Divina  Commedia  the  charac- 

15  ters  are  without  any  bond  of  union,  any  field  of 
action,  any  definite  aim.  There  is  no  central  light 
above  the  Bolge;  and  we  are  chilled  in  Paradise 
even  at  the  side  of  Beatrice. 

Southey.   Some  poetical  Perillus  must  surely  have 

20  invented  the  terza  rima.  I  feel  in  reading  it  as  a 
school-boy  feels  when  he  is  beaten  over  the  head 
with  a  bolster. 

Landor.  We  shall  hardly  be  in  time  for  dinner. 
What  should  we  have  been  if  we  had  repeated  with 

25  just  eulogies  all  the  noble  things  in  the  poem  we 
have  been  reading? 

Southey.  They  would  never  have  weaned  you 
from  the  Mighty  Mother  who  placed  her  turreted 
crown  on  the  head  of  Shakspeare. 

30  Landor.  A  rib  of  Shakspeare  would  have  made^ 
a  Milton;  the  same  portion  of  Milton,  all  poets  \ 
born  ever  since. 


Bnbrew  /IDarvel  aufc  Bisbop  parfeer, 

Parker.  Most  happy  am  I  to  encounter  you,  Mr. 
Marvel.  It  is  some  time,  I  think,  since  we  met. 
May  I  take  the  liberty  of  inquiring  what  brought 
you  into  such  a  lonely  quarter  as  Bunhill  Fields? 

Marvel.    My   lord,   I  return   at   this  instant  from   5 
visiting  an  old  friend  of  ours,  hard  by,  in  Artillery 
Walk;  who,   you   will   be  happy  to  hear,   bears   his 
blindness  and  asthma  with  truly  Christian  courage. 

Parker.  And  pray,  who  may  that  old  friend  be, 
Mr.  Marvel?  10 

Marvel.    Honest  John  Milton. 

Parker.  The  same  gentleman  whose  ingenious 
poem,  on  our  first  parents,  you  praised  in  some 
elegant  verses  prefixed  to  it? 

Marvel.   The  same  who  likewise,   on  many  occa-  I5 
sions,  merited  and  obtained  your  lordship's  appro- 
bation. 

Parker.  I  am  happy  to  understand  that  no 
harsh  measures  were  taken  against  him,  on  the 
return  of  our  most  gracious  sovereign.  And  it  20 
occurs  to  me  that  you,  Mr.  Marvel,  were  earnest 
in  his  behalf.  Indeed,  1  myself  might  have  stirred 
upon  it,  had  Mr.  Milton  solicited  me  in  the  hour 
of  need. 

Marvel.    Me  is  grateful    to   the  friends  who   con- 25 
suited  at  the  same  time  his  dignity  and   his  safety; 
but  gratitude  can  never  be  expected   to  grow  on  a 


ANDREW  MARVEL  AND  BISHOP  PARKER.        73 

soil  hardened  by  solicitation.  Those  who  are  the 
most  ambitious  of  power  are  often  the  least  ambi- 
tious of  glory.  It  requires  but  little  sagacity  to 
foresee  that  a  name  will  become  invested  with  eter- 
5  nal  brightness  by  belonging  to  a  benefactor  of 
Milton.  I  might  have  served  him!  is  not  always  the 
soliloquy  of  late  compassion  or  of  virtuous  repent- 
ance: it  is  frequently  the  cry  of  blind  and  impo- 
tent and  wounded  pride,  angry  at  itself  for  having 

10  neglected  a  good  bargain,  a  rich  reversion.  Be- 
lieve me,  my  lord  bishop,  there  are  few  whom  God 
has  promoted  to  serve  the  truly  great.  They  are 
never  to  be  superseded,  nor  are  their  names  to  be 
obliterated  in  earth  or  heaven.  Were  I  to  trust 

15  my  observation  rather  than  my  feelings,  I 
should  believe  that  friendship  is  only  a  state  of 
transition  to  enmity.  The  wise,  the  excellent  in 
honour  and  integrity,  whom  it  was  once  our  ambi- 
tion to  converse  with,  soon  appear  in  our  sight  no 

20 higher  than  the  ordinary  class  of  our  acquaintance; 
then  become  fit  objects  to  set  our  own  slender 
wits  against,  to  contend  with,  to  interrogate,  to 
subject  to  the  arbitration,  not  of  their  equals,  but 
of  ours;  and,  lastly, — what  indeed  is  less  injustice 

25  and  less  indignity, — to  neglect,  abandon,  and  dis- 
own. 

Parker.  I  never  have  doubted  that  Mr.  Milton  is 
a  learned  man — indeed,  he  has  proven  it;  and  there 
are  many  who,  like  yourself,  see  considerable  merit 

30111  his  poems.  I  confess  that  lam  an  indifferent 
judge  in  these  matters;  and  I  can  only  hope  that  he 
has  now  corrected  what  is  erroneous  in  his  doctrines. 


74        ANDREW  M  ARTEL  AND  BISHOP  PARKER. 

Marvel.   Latterly,  he  hath  never  changed  a  jot,  in 
acting  or  thinking. 

Parker.   Wherein  1  hold  him  blamable,  well  aware 
as  I  am  that  never  to  change  is  thought  an  indication 
of  rectitude  and  wisdom.      I»ut  if  everything  in  this   5 
world  is  progressive;  if  everything  is  defective;  if 
our  growth,  if  our  faculties,  are  obvious  and  certain 
signs  of  it — then  surely  we  should  and  must  be  dif- 
ferent in  different  ages  and  conditions.     Conscious- 
ness of  error  is,  to  a  certain  extent,  a  consciousness  10 
of    understanding;    anil  correction  of  error  is    the 
plainest  proof  of  energy  and  mastery. 

Marvel.    No  proof  of  the  kind  is  necessary  to  my 
friend;   and  it  was  not  always    that  your  lordship 
looked  down  on   him  so  magisterially  in  reprehen-  15 
sion,  or  delivered  a  sentence  from  so  commanding 
an  elevation.      1,  who  indeed  am  but  a  humble  man, 
am  apt   to  question    my  judgment   where   it   differs 
from  his.      I  am  appalled  by  any  supercilious  glance 
at  him,  and  disgusted  by  any  austerity  ill  assorted  20 
with  the  generosity  of  his  mind.     When  I  consider 
what   pure  delight   we  have  derived  from  it,  what 
treasures  of  wisdom   it   has  conveyed  to  us,  1  find 
him  supremely  worthy  of  my  gratitude,  love,  and 
veneration;    and  the  neglect  in  which   I    now  dis- 25 
cover  him   leaves  me  only  the  more  room  for  the 
free  effusion  of  these  sentiments.      How  shallow  in 
comparison  is  everything  else  around   us,  trickling 
and  dimpling  in   the  pleasure-grounds  of  our  litera- 
ture!    If  we  are  to  build  our  summer-houses  against  30 
ruined  temples,  let  us  at  least   abstain  from  ruining 
them  for  the  purpose. 


ANDREW  MARVEL  AND  BISHOP  PARKER.        75 

Parker.   Nay,  nay,  Mr.  Marvel!  so  much  warmth 
is  uncalled  for. 

Marvel.  Is  there  anything  offensive  to  your  lord- 
ship in  my  expressions? 

5  Parker.  I  am  not  aware  that  there  is.  But  let  us 
generalise  a  little;  for  we  are  prone  to  be  touchy 
and  testy  in  favour  of  our  intimates. 

Marvel.   I  believe,  my  lord,  this  fault,  or  sin,  or 
whatsoever  it  may  be  designated,  is  among  the  few 
10  that  are  wearing  fast  away. 

Parker.  You   will  find    your  opinions  discounte- 
nanced by  both  our  universities. 

Marvel.  I  do  not  want  anybody  to  corroborate  my 
opinions.  They  keep  themselves  up  by  their  own 
15  weight  and  consistency.  Cambridge  on  one  side 
and  Oxford  on  the  other  could  lend  me  no  effectual 
support;  and  my  skiff  shall  never  be  impeded  by  the 
sedges  of  Cam,  nor  grate  on  the  gravel  of  Isis. 

Parker.   Mr.  Marvel,  the  path  of  what  we  fondly 
20 call  patriotism  is  highly  perilous.     Courts  at  least 
are  safe. 

Marvel.   I    would    rather   stand    on    the  ridge  of 

Etna  than  lower  my  head  in  the  Grotto  del  Cane. 

By  the  one  I  may  share  the  fate  of  a  philosopher; 

25  by  the  other  I  must  suffer  the  death  of  a  cur. 

Parker.   We  are  all  of  us  dust  and  ashes. 

Marvel.  True,  my  lord;  but  in  some  we  recognise 

the  dust  of  gold  and  the  ashes  of  the  phoenix;  in 

others,  the  dust  of  the  gateway  and  the  ashes  of 

30  turf  and   stubble.     With   the  greatest   rulers   upon 

earth,  head  and  crown  drop  together,  and  are  over- 


76        ANDREW  MARVEL  AtfD  BISHOP  PARKER. 

looked.  It  is  true,  we  read  of  them  in  history;  but 
we  also  read  in  history  of  crocodiles  and  hyanias. 
With  great  writers,  whether  in  poetry  or  prose, 
what  falls  away  is  scarcely  more  or  other  than  a 
vesture.  The  features  of  the  man  are  imprinted  5 
on  his  works;  and  more  lamps  burn  over  them,  and 
more  religiously,  than  are  lighted  in  temples  or 
churches.  Milton,  and  men  like  him,  bring  their 
own  incense,  kindle  it  with  their  own  fire,  and  leave 
it  unconsumed  and  unconsumable;  and  their  music,  10 
*  by  day  and  by  night,  swells  along  a  vault  commensu- 
rate with  the  vault  of  heaven. 

Parker.   Mr.  Marvel,  I  am  admiring  the  extremely 
fine  lace  of  your  cravat. 

Marvel.  It  cost  me  less  than  lawn  would  have  15 
done;  and  it  wins  me  a  reflection.  Very  few  can 
think  that  man  a  great  man  whom  they  have  been 
accustomed  to  meet  dressed  exactly  like  them- 
selves; more  especially  if  they  happen  to  find  him, 
not  in  park,  forest,  or  chase,  but  warming  his  limbs -0 
by  the  reflected  heat  of  the  bricks  in  Artillery 
Walk.  In  England,  a  man  becomes  a  great  man  by 
living  in  the  middle  of  a  great  field;  in  Italy,  by 
living  in  a  walled  city;  in  France,  by  living  in  a 
courtyard:  no  matter  what  lives  they  lead  there.  25 

Parker.   I  am  afraid,  Mr.   Marvel,  there  is  some 
slight  bitterness  in  your  observation. 

Marvel.   Bitterness,  it  may  be,   from  the  bruised 
laurel  of  Milton. 

What  falsehoods  will  not  men  put  on,  if  they  can  30 
only  pad  them  with  a  little  piety!     And  how    few 
will  expose  their  whole  faces,  from  a  fear  of  being 


ANDREW  MARVEL  AND  BISHOP  PARKER.        77 

frost-bitten   by    poverty!     But    Milton  was  among 
the  few. 

Parker.  Already  have  we  had  our  Deluge:  we  are 
now  once  more  upon  dry  land  again,  and  we  behold 
5  the  same  creation  as  rejoiced   us  formerly.     Our 
late  gloomy  and  turbulent  times  are  passed  for  ever. 
Marvel.   Perhaps  they  are,  if  anything  is  for  ever; 
but  the  sparing  Deluge  may  peradventure  be  com- 
muted for  unsparing  Fire,  as  we  are  threatened. 

10  The  arrogant,  the  privileged,  the  stiff  upholders  of 
established  wrong,  the  deaf  opponents  of  equitable 
reformation,  the  lazy  consumers  of  ill-requited 
industry,  the  fraudulent  who,  unable  to  stop  the 

j^L^purse    of   the    sun,    pervert    the  direction   of   the 

15  gnomon — all  these,  peradventure,  may  be  gradually 
consumed  by  the  process  of  silent  contempt,  or 
suddenly  scattered  by  the  tempest  of  popular  indig- 
nation. As  we  see  in  masquerades  the  real  judge 
and  the  real  soldier  stopped  and  mocked  by  the 

20  fictitious,  so  do  we  see  in  the  carnival  of  to-day 
the  real  man  of  dignity  hustled,  shoved  aside,  and 
derided  by  those  who  are  invested  with  the 
semblance  by  the  milliners  of  the  court.  The 
populace  is  taught  to  respect  this  livery  alone,  and 

25  is  proud  of  being  permitted  to  look  through  the 
grating  at  such  ephemeral  frippery.  And  yet  false 
gems  and  false  metals  have  never  been  valued 
above  real  ones.  Until  our  people  alter  these 
notions;  until  they  estimate  the  wise  and  virtuous 

30 above  the  silly  and  profligate,  the  man  of  genius 
above  the  man  of  title;  until  they  hold  the  knave 
and  cheat  of.  St.  James's  as  low  as  the  knave  and 


7  8        ANDRE  W  MA  R I  'EL  A  ND  BISHOP  PA  Rh'ER. 

cheat  of  St.  Giles's — they  are  fitter  for  the  slave- 
market  than  for  any  other  station. 

Parker.   You  would  have  no  distinctions,  I  fear. 

Marvel.  On  the  contrary,  I  would  have  greater 
than  exist  at  present.  You  cannot  blot  or  burn  out  5 
an  ancient  name;  you  cannot  annihilate  past  ser- 
vices; you  cannot  subtract  one  single  hour  from 
eternity,  nor  wither  one  leaf  on  his  brow  who  hath 
entered  into  it.  Sweep  away  from  before  me  the 
soft  grubs  of  yesterday's  formation,  generated  by  10 
the  sickliness  of  the  plant  they  feed  upon;  sweep 
them  away  unsparingly — then  will  you  clearly  see 
distinctions,  and  easily  count  the  men  who  have 
attained  them  worthily. 

Parker.    In  a  want  of  respect  to  established  power  15 
and  principles  originated  most  of  the  calamities  we 
have  latterly  undergone. 

Marvel.   Say    rather,    in    the    averseness   of    that 
power   and    the    inadequacy  of   those   principles   to 
resist    the  encroachment   of  injustice;    say  rather,  20 
on    their    tendency    to    distort    the  poor  creatures 
swaddled  up  in  them;  add,  moreover,  the  reluctance 
of   the   old    women   who   rock   and   dandle   them  to 
change  their  habiliments  fur   fresh  and  wholesome 
ones.      A   man   will   break   the  windows  of  his  own  25 
house,  that  he  may  not  perish   by  foul  air  within; 
now,  whether  is  he,  or  those   who  bolted  the  door 
on    him,    to  blame   for  it?     If  he   is  called   mad   or 
inconsiderate,  it  is  only  by  those   who  arc   ignorant 
of    the    cause    and    insensible    of    the    urgency.       I  30 
declare  I  am  rejoiced  at  seeing  a  gentleman,  whose 
ancestors  have  signally  served  their  country,  treated 


ANDREW  MARVEL  AND  BISHOP  PARKER.        79 

with  deference  and  respect;  because  it  evinces  a 
sense  of  justice  and  of  gratitude  in  the  people,  and 
because  it  may  incite  a  few  others,  whose  ambition 
would  take  another  course,  to  desire  the  same. 
5  Different  is  my  sentence,  when  he  who  has  not 
performed  the  action  claims  more  honour  than  he 
who  performed  it,  and  thinks  himself  the  worthier 
if  twenty  are  between  them  than  if  there  be  one  or 
none.  Still  less  accordant  is  it  with  my  principles, 

xoand  less  reducible  to  my  comprehension,  that  they 
who  devised  the  ruin  of  cities  and  societies  should 
be  exhibited  as  deserving  much  higher  distinction 
than  they  who  have  corrected  the  hearts  and 
enlarged  the  intellects,  and  have  performed  it  not 

15  only  without  the  hope  of  reward,  but  almost  with 
the  certainty  of  persecution. 

Parker.  Ever   too    hard    upon    great    men,    Mr. 
Marvel! 
Marvel.   Little    men  in    lofty  places,   who   throw 

20  long  shadows  because  our  sun  is  setting, — the  man 
so  little  and  the  places  so  lofty,  that,  casting  my 
pebble,  I  only  show  where  they  stand.  They  would 
be  less  contented  with  themselves,  if  they  had 
obtained  their  preferment  honestly.  Luck  and 

25  dexterity  always  give  more  pleasure  than  intellect 
and  knowledge;  because  they  fill  up  what  they  fall 
on  to  the  brim  at  once,  and  people  run  to  them 
with  acclamations  at  the  splash.  Wisdom  is  re- 
served and  noiseless,  contented  with  hard  carn- 

30 ings,  and  daily  letting  go  some  early  acquisition, 
to  make  room  for  better  specimens.  But  great 
is  the  exultation  of  a  worthless  man,  when  he 


8o        ANDREW  MARVEL  AND  BISHOP  PARKER. 

receives,  for  the  chips  and  raspings  of  his  Bride- 
well logwood,  a  richer  reward  than  the  best  and 
wisest  for  extensive  tracts  of  well-cleared  truths; 
when  he  who  has  sold  his  country — 

Parker.    Forbear,  forbear,  good  Mr.  Marvel!  5 

Marvel.  When  such  is  higher  in  estimation  than 
he  who  would  have  saved  it;  when  his  emptiness  is 
heard  above  the  voice  that  hath  shaken  Fanati- 
cism in  her  central  shrine,  that  hath  bowed  down 
tyrants  to  the  scaffold,  that  hath  raised  up  nations  10 
from  the  dust,  that  alone  hath  been  found  worthy 
to  celebrate,  as  angels  do,  creating  and  redeeming 
Love,  and  to  precede  with  its  solitary  sound  the 
trumpet  that  will  call  us  to  our  doom. 

Parker.   I  am  unwilling  to  feign  ignorance  of  the  15 
gentleman  you  designate;  but  really  now  you  would 
make  a  very  Homer  of  him. 

Marvel.  It  appears  to  me  that  Homer  is  to  Milton 
what  a  harp  is  to  an  organ,  though  a  harp  under  the 
hand  of  Apollo.  20 

Parker.  I  have  always  done  him  justice;  I  have 
always  called  him  a  learned  man. 

Marvel.   Call  him  henceforward  the  most  glorious 
one  that  ever  existed  upon  earth.     If  two — Bacon 
and  Shakspeare — have  equalled  him  in  diversity  and  25 
intensity  of  power,  did  either  of  these  spring  away 
with  such  resolution  from  the  sublimest  heights  of 
genius,  to  liberate  and  illuminate  with  patient  labour 
the  manacled  human  race?     And  what  is  his  recom- 
pense?    The  same   recompense  as  all  men  like  him  30 
have   received,    and   will    receive   for   ages.      Perse- 
cution  follows  righteousness;  the  Scorpion   is  next 


ANDREW  MARVEL  AND  BISHOP  PARKER.        8l 

in  succession  to  Libra.  The  fool,  however,  who 
ventures  to  detract  from  Milton's  genius,  in  the 
night  which  now  appears  to  close  on  him,  will, 
when  the  dawn  has  opened  on  his  dull  ferocity,  be 
5  ready  to  bite  off  a  limb,  if  he  might  thereby  limp 
away  from  the  trap  he  has  prowled  into.  Among 
the  gentler,  the  better,  and  the  wiser,  few  have 
entered  yet  the  awful  structure  of  his  mind;  few 
comprehend,  few  are  willing  to  contemplate,  its 
Jovastness.  Politics  now  occupy  scarcely  a  closet  in 
it.  We  seldom  are  inclined  to  converse  on  them; 
and,  when  we  do,  it  is  jocosely  rather  than  austerely. 
For  even  the  bitterest  berries  grow  less  acrid  when 
they  have  been  hanging  long  on  the  tree. 

***• 

15  Parker.  Dear  me !  what  a  memory  you  possess, 
good  Mr.  Marvel!  You  pronounce  Latin  verses 
charmingly.  I  wish  you  would  go  on  to  the  end  of 
the  book. 

Marvel.   Permit  to  go  on  a  shorter  distance, — to 

20  the  conclusion  of  my  remarks.  As  popery  caused 
the  violence  of  the  Reformers,  so  did  prelaty  (the 
same  thing  under  another  name)  the  violence  of  the 
Presbyterians  and  Anabaptists.  She  treated  them 
inhumanly:  she  reduced  to  poverty,  she  exiled, 

25  she  maimed,  she  mutilated,  she  stabbed,  she  shot, 
she  hanged,  those  who  followed  Christ  in  the  nar- 
row and  quiet  lane,  rather  than  along  the  dust  of 
j     the    market-road,    and    who    conversed    with     him 
rather    in    the    cottage    than    the  tollbooth.      She 

30  would  have  nothing  pass  unless  through  her  hands; 
and  she  imposed  a  heavy  and  intolerable  tax  on  the 


8  2        ANDREW  MARVEL  AND  BISHOP  PARKER. 

necessaries  both  of  physical  and  of  spiritual  life. 
This  baronial  privilege  our  Parliament  would  have 
suppressed;  the  King  rose  against  the  suppres- 
sion, and  broke  his  knuckles  in  the  cogs  of  the 
mill.  5 

Parker.   Sad   times,    Mr.    Marvel,  sad  times!     It 
fills  me  with  heaviness  to  hear  of  them. 

Marvel.   Low  places  are  foggy  first;  days  of  sad- 
ness wet  the  people  to  the  skin;  they  hang  loosely 
for  some   time   upon   the  ermine,  but  at  last  they  10 
penetrate  it,  and  cause  it  to  be  thrown  off.     I   do 
not  like  to   hear  a  man  cry  out  with  pain;  but  I 
would  rather  hear  one  than  twenty.     Sorrow  is  the 
growth  of  all  seasons;  we  had   much,   however,   to 
relieve  it.      Never  did  our  England,  since   she   first  15 
emerged   from  the  ocean,  rise   so  high  above  sur- 
rounding nations.      The    rivalry   of    Holland,     the 
pride    of    Spain,    the    insolence  of    France,    were 
thrust  back  by  one  finger  each;  yet  those  countries 
were  then  more  powerful  than  they  had  ever  been.  20 
The  sword  of  Cromwell  was  preceded  by   the   mace 
of   Milton;  by   that  mace  which,  when  Oliver  had 
rendered  his  account,  opened  to  our  contemplation 
/  the  garden-gate  of  Paradise.     And  there  were  some 
around   not   unworthy    to  enter  with  him.      In  the  25 
compass  of  sixteen  centuries,  you  will   not  number 
on  the  whole  earth  so  many  wise  and  admirable  men 
as  you   could   have   found  united  in  that  single  day, 
when     England     showed    her    true    magnitude    and 
solved  the  question,  \Vhich  is  most,  one  or  a   million  ?  30 
There  were   giants   in   those  days;   but   giants    who 
feared  (lod,  and  not  who  fought  against  him.      Less 


ANDREW  MARVEL  AND  BISHOP  PARKER.        83 

men,  it  appears,  are  braver.  They  show  him  a  legal 
writ  of  ejectment,  seize  upon  his  house,  and  riot- 
ously carouse  therein.  But  the  morning  must 
come;  and  heaviness,  we  know,  cometh  in  the 
5  morning. 

Parker.  Wide  is  the  difference  between  carousal 
and  austerity.  Your  friend  miscalculated  the  steps 
to  fortune,  in  which,  as  we  all  are  the  architects  of 
our  own,  if  we  omit  the  insertion  of  one  or  two,  the 
10 rest  are  useless  in  furthering  our  ascent.  He  was 
too  passionate,  Mr.  Marvel,  he  was  indeed. 

Marvel.  Superficial  men  have  no  absorbing  pas- 
sion: there  are  no  whirlpools  in  a  shallow.  I  have 
often  been  amused  at  thinking  in  what  estimation 
15  the  greatest  of  mankind  were  holden  by  their  con- 
temporaries. Not  even  the  most  sagacious  and 
prudent  one  could  discover  much  of  them,  or  could 
prognosticate  their  future  course  in  the  infinity  of 
space!  Men  like  ourselves  are  permitted  to  stand 
20 near,  and  indeed  in  the  very  presence  of,  Milton. 
What  do  they  see  ? — dark  clothes,  gray  hair,  and 
sightless  eyes!  Other  men  have  better  things: 
other  men,  therefore,  are  nobler!  The  stars  them- 
selves are  only  bright  by  distance;  go  close,  and  all 
25  is  earthy.  But  vapours  illuminate  these:  from  the 
breath  and  from  the  countenance  of  God  comes 
light  on  worlds  higher  than  they, — worlds  to  which 
he  has  given  the  forms  and  names  of  Shakspeare 
and  of  Milton. 

30      Parker.    After  all,  I  doubt   whether  much  of   his 
doctrine  is  remaining  in  the  public  mind. 

Marvel.   Others    are    not    inclined   to    remember 


84        ANDREW  MARVEL  AND  BISHOP  PARKER. 

all  that  we  remember,  and  will  not  attend  to  us  if 
we  propose  to  tell  them  half.  Water  will  take  up 
but  a  certain  quantity  of  salt,  even  of  the  finest  and 
purest.  If  the  short  memories  of  men  are  to  be 
quoted  against  the  excellence  of  instruction,  your  5 
lordship  would  never  have  censured  them  from  the 
pulpit  for  forgetting  what  was  delivered  by  their 
Saviour.  It  is  much,  my  lord  bishop,  that  you 
allow  my  friend  even  the  pittance  of  praise  you 
have  bestowed;  for,  if  you  will  permit  me  to  ex- 10 
press  my  sentiments  in  verse,  which  I  am  in  the 
habit  of  doing,  I  would  say — 

Men  like  the  ancient  kalends,  nones,  and  ides, 
Are  reckoned  backward,  and  the  first  stand  last. 

I  am    confident    that    Milton    is    heedless    of  how  15 
little  weight  he  is  held  by  those   who   are   of   none; 
and  that   he  never  looks  toward  those    somewhat 
more   eminent,    between  whom   and    himself   there 
have  crept  the   waters  of  oblivion.     As  the   pearl 
ripens  in  the  obscurity  of  its  shell,  so  ripens  in  the  20 
tomb  all  the  fame  that  is  truly   precious.      In   fame 
he  will  be  happier  than  in  friendship.     Were  it  pos- 
sible that  one  among    the  faithful    of    the    angels 
could  have  suffered  wounds  and   dissolution   in  his 
conflict    with    the    false,     I    should     scarcely    feel  25 
greater  awe  at  discovering  on  some  bleak  mountain 
the  bones  of  this  our  mighty  defender,  once  shining 
in   celestial    panoply,  once  glowing  at   the   trumpet- 
blast  of  (iod,  but   not    proof   against   the  desperate 
and  the  damned,  than    I    have   felt   at   entering   the  30 
humble    abode    of    Milton,     whose    spirit    already 


ANDREW  MARVEL  AND  BISHOP  PARKER.        85 

reaches  heaven,  yet  whose  corporeal  frame  hath  no 
quiet  or  safe  resting-place  here  below.  And  shall 
not  I,  who  loved  him  early,  have  the  lonely  and  sad 
privilege  to  love  him  still?  Or  shall  fidelity  to  power 

5  be  a  virtue,  and  fidelity  to  tribulation  an  offence? 

Parker.  We  may  best  show  our  fidelity  by  our 
discretion.  It  becomes  my  station,  and  suits  my 
principles,  to  defend  the  English  Constitution,  both 
in  Church  and  State. 

10  Marvel.  You  highly  praised  the  Defence  of  the 
English  People;  you  called  it  a  masterly  piece  of 
rhetoric  and  ratiocination. 

Parker.  I  might  have  admired  the  subtilty  of  it, 
and  have  praised  the  Latinity. 

15  Marvel.  Less  reasonably.  But  his  godlike  mind 
shines  gloriously  throughout  his  work ;  only  perhaps 
we  look  the  more  intently  at  it  for  the  cloud  it 
penetrates.  Those  who  think  we  have  enough  of 
his  poetry  still  regret  that  we  possess  too  little  of 

20  his  prose,  and  wish  especially  for  more  of  his  his- 
torical compositions.  Davila  and  Bacon 

Parker.   You  mean  Lord  Verulam. 
Marvel.   That  idle  title  was  indeed  thrown  over 
his  shoulders;  but  the  trapping  was  unlikely  to  rest 

25  long  upon  a  creature  of  such  proud  paces.  He  and 
Davila  are  the  only  men  of  high  genius  among  the 
moderns  who  have  attempted  it;  and  the  greater 
of  them  has  failed.  He  wanted  honesty,  lie  per- 
verted facts,  he  courted  favour:  the  present  in  his 

30  eyes  was  larger  than  the  future. 

Parker.  The  Italians,  who  far  excel  us  in  the 
writing  of  history,  are  farther  behind  the  ancients. 


86        ANDRE IV  MARVEL  AND  BISHOP  PARKER. 

Marvel.  True  enough.  From  Guicciardini  and 
Machiavelli,  the  most  celebrated  of  them,  we 
acquire  a  vast  quantity  of  trivial  information. 
There  is  about  them  a  sawdust  which  absorbs  much 
blood  and  impurity,  and  of  which  the  level  surface  5 
is  dry;  but  no  traces  by  what  agency  rose  such 
magnificent  cities  above  the  hovels  of  France  and 
Germany, — none 

Ut  fortis  Etruria  crevit, 

or,  on   the  contrary,  how  the  mistress  of  the  world  10 
sank  in  the  ordure  of  her  priesthood. 

Scilicet  et  rerum  facta  est  nequissima  Roma. 

We  are  captivated  by  no  charms  of  description,  we 
are  detained  by  no  peculiarities  of  character:  we 
hear  a  clamorous  scuffle  in  the  street,  and  we  close  15 
the  door.  How  different  the  historians  of  anti- 
quity! We  read  Sallust,  and  always  are  incited  by 
the  desire  of  reading  on,  although  we  are  sur- 
rounded by  conspirators  and  barbarians;  we  read 
Livy,  until  we  imagine  we  are  standing  in  an  august  20 
pantheon,  covered  with  altars  and  standards,  over 
which  are  the  four  fatal  letters  that  spellbound  all 
mankind.*  We  step  forth  again  among  the  mod- 
ern Italians:  here  we  find  plenty  of  rogues,  plenty 
of  receipts  for  making  more;  and  little  else.  In  25 
the  best  passages,  we  come  upon  a  crowd  of  dark 
reflections,  which  scarcely  a  glimmer  of  glory 
pierces  through;  and  we  stare  at  the  tenuity  ot  the 
spectres,  but  never  at  their  altitude. 

Give  me  the  poetical  mind,  the  mind  poetical  in  3° 
*S.  P.  <.  K. 


ANDREW  MARVEL  AND  BISHOP  PARKER.        87 

all  things;  give  me  the  poetical  heart,  the  heart  ofl 
hope  and  confidence,  that  beats  the  more  strongly  j 
and  resolutely  under  the  good  thrown  down,  and  ' 
raises  up  fabric  after  fabric  on  the  same  founda- 
5  tion. 

Parker.  At  your  time  of  life,  Mr.  Marvel? 
Marvel.   At  mine,  my  lord  bishop!     I  have  lived 
with  Milton.     Such  creative  and  redeeming  spirits 
are  like   kindly  and   renovating  Nature.     Volcano 

10 comes  after  volcano;  yetcovereth  she  with  herbage 
and  foliage,  with  vine  and  olive,  and  with  what- 
ever else  refreshes  and  gladdens  her  the  Earth  that 
has  been  gasping  under  the  exhaustion  of  her 
throes. 

15  Parker.  He  has  given  us  such  a  description  of 
Eve's  beauty  as  appears  to  me  somewhat  too  pic- 
torial, too  luxuriant,  too  suggestive,  too — I  know 
not  what. 

Marvel.   The   sight  of  beauty,  in   her  purity  and 

20 beatitude,  turns  us  from  all  unrighteousness,  and 
is  death  to  sin. 

Parker.  Before  we  part,  my  good  Mr.  Marvel, 
let  me  assure  you  that  we  part  in  amity,  and  that 
I  bear  no  resentment  in  my  breast  against  your 

25  friend.  I  am  patient'of  Mr.  Milton;  I  am  more 
than  patient, — I  am  indulgent,  seeing  that  his  in- 
fluence on  society  is  past. 

Marvel.  Past  it  is,  indeed.  What  a  deplorable 
thing  is  it  that  folly  should  so  constantly  have 

30  power  over  wisdom,  and  wisdom  so  intermittently 
over  folly!  But  we  live  morally,  as  we  used  to  live 
politically,  under  a  representative  system;  and  the 


88        ANDREW  MARVEL  AXD  BISHOP  PARKER. 

majority  (to  employ  a  phrase  of  people  at  elections) 
carries  the  day. 

Parker.  Let  us  piously   hope,   Mr.   Marvel,   that 
God   in  his  good   time   may  turn  Mr.  Milton  from 
the  error  of  his  ways,  and  incline  his  heart  to  re-    5 
pentance,  and   that  so  he  may  finally  be  prepared 
for  death. 

Marvel.  The  wicked  can   never  be  prepared  for 
it;  the  good  always  are.     What  is  the  preparation 
which  so  many  ruffled  wrists   point  out? — to  gabble  10 
over  prayer  and  praise  and  confession  and   contri- 
tion.    My  lord,  heaven  is  not  to  be  won  by  short 
hard  work  at  the  last,  as  some  of  us  take  a  degree 
at  the  university,  after  much  irregularity  and  negli- 
gence.    I  prefer  a  steady  pace  from  the  outset   to  15 
the  end;  coming  in  cool,  and   dismounting  quietly. 
Instead  of  which,    I   have  known   many   old    play- 
fellows of  the  Devil  spring  up  suddenly  from   their 
beds,    and  strike  at  him  treacherously;    while   he, 
without  a  cuff,  laughed  and  made  grimaces  in   the  20 
corner  of  the  room. 


anfc  Spenser.    i*Yi 

Essex.  Instantly  on  hearing  of  thy  arrival  from 
Ireland,  I  sent  a  message  to  thee,  good  Edmund, 
that  1  might  learn,  from  one  so  judicious  and  dis- 
passionate as  thou  art,  the  real  state  of  things  in 
5  that  distracted  country;  it  having  pleased  the 
Queen's  Majesty  to  think  of  appointing  me  her 
deputy,  in  order  to  bring  the  rebellious  to  sub- 
mission. 

Spenser.  Wisely  and  well  considered;  but  more 
10  worthily  of  her  judgment  than  her  affection.  May 
your  lordship  overcome,  as  you  have  ever  done,  the 
difficulties  and  dangers  you  foresee. 

Essex.  We  grow  weak  by  striking  at  random;  and 
knowing  that  I  must  strike,  and  strike  heavily,  I 
15  would  fain  see  exactly  where  the  stroke  shall  fall. 

Now  what  tale  have  you  for  us? 

Spenser.  Interrogate  me,  my  lord,  that  I  may 
answer  each  question  distinctly,  my  mind  being  in 
sad  confusion  at  what  I  have  seen  and  undergone. 
20  Essex.  Give  me  thy  account  and  opinion  of  these 
very  affairs  as  thou  leftest  them;  for  I  would  rather 
know  one  part  well  than  all  imperfectly;  and  the 
violences  of  which  1  have  heard  within  the  day  sur- 
pass belief. 

89 


9°  ESSEX  AND   SPENSER. 

Why  wecpest  thou,  my  gentle  Spenser?  Have  the 
rebels  sacked  thy  house? 

Spenser.  They  have  plundered  and  utterly  de- 
stroyed it. 

Essex.   I    grieve    for     thee,    and     will    see    thee   5 
righted. 

Spenser.    In  this  they  have  little  harmed  me. 

Essex.  How!  I  have  heard  it  reported  that  thy 
grounds  are  fertile,  and  thy  mansion  large  and 
pleasant.  10 

Spenser.  If  river  and  lake  and  meadow-ground  and 
mountain  could  render  any  place  the  abode  of  pleas- 
antness, pleasant  was  mine,  indeed! 

On  the  lovely  banks  of   Mulla  I   found  deep  con- 
tentment.     Under  the  dark   alders  did  I  muse  and  '5 
meditate.      Innocent  hopes  were  my  gravest  cares, 
and   my  playfullesl    fancy   was  with   kindly  wishes. 
Ah!  surely  of  all  cruelties  the  worst  is  to  extinguish 
our  kindness.      Mine  is  gone:  I  love  the  people  and 
the   land   no   longer.      My  lord,  ask   me   not   about  20 
them:  I  may  speak  injuriously. 

Essex.  Think  rather,  then,  of  thy  happier  hours 
and  busier  occupations;  these  likewise  may  instruct 
me. 

Spenser.   The  first  seeds  I  sowed  in  the  garden,  25- 
erc  the  old  castle  was  made  habitable  for  my  lovely 
bride,    were   acorns    from    IVnshurst.      1    planted   a 
little  oak   before   my  mansion  at   the  birth   of  each 
child.      My  sons,   I  said   to   myself,  shall  often   play 
in    the  shade  of   them   when  I  am  gone;  and   every  30 
year  shall  they  take  the  measure  of  their  growth,  as 
fondly  as  I  take  theirs. 


ESSEX  AND  SPENSEK.  91 

Essex.  Well,  well;  but  let  not  this  thought  make 
thee  weep  so  bitterly. 

Spenser.  Poison  may  ooze  from  beautiful  plants; 
deadly  grief  from  dearest  reminiscences. 
5  I  must  grieve,  1  must  weep:  it  seems  the  law  of 
God,  and  the  only  one  that  men  are  not  disposed  to 
contravene.  In  the  performance  of  this  alone  do 
they  effectually  aid  one  another. 

Essex.   Spenser!     I  wish  I  had  at  hand  any  argu- 
xomentsor  persuasions  of  force  sufficient  to  remove 
thy  sorrow;  but,  really,  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  see- 
ing men  grieve  at  anything  except  the  loss  of  favour 
at  court,  or  of  a  hawk,  or  of  a  buck-hound.     And 
were  I  to  swear  out  my  condolences  to  a  man  of  thy 
15  discernment,  in  the  same  round  roll-call  phrases  we 
employ  with  one  another  upon  these  occasions,  I 
should  be  guilty,  not  of  insincerity,  but  of  insolence. 
True  grief  hath  ever  something  sacred  in  it;  and, 
when  it  visiteth  a  wise  man  and  a  brave  one,  is  most 
20  holy. 

Nay,  kiss  not  my  hand:  he  whom  God  smiteth 
hath  God  with  him.     In  his  presence  what  am  I? 

Spenser.   Never  so  great,  my  lord,  as  at  this  hour, 
when  you  see  aright  who  is  greater.     May  he  guide 
25  your  counsels,  and  preserve  your  life  and  glory! 

Essex.  Where   are    thy   friends?     Are   they   with 
thee? 

Spenser.   Ah,    where,    indeed!       Generous,    true- 
hearted  Philip!  where  art  thou,  whose  presence  was 
30  unto  me   peace  and  safety;  whose  smile   was  con- 
tentment, and  whose  praise  renown?     My  lord!     I 
cannot  but  think  of  him  among  still  heavier  losses: 


92  ESSEX  AND   SPENSER. 

he  was  my  earliest  friend,  and  would  have  taught  me 
wisdom. 

Essex.  Pastoral  poetry,  my  dear  Spenser,  doth  not 
require  tears  and  lamentations.  Dry  thine  eyes; 
rebuild  thine  house:  the  Queen  and  Council,  I  ven-  5 
ture  to  promise  thee,  will  make  ample  amends  for 
every  evil  thou  hast  sustained.  What!  does  that 
enforce  thee  to  wail  yet  louder? 

Spenser.   Pardon   me,    bear  with  me,  most   noble 
heart!     I  have  lost  what  no  Council,  no  Queen,  no  10 
Essex,  can  restore. 

Essex.  We  will  see  that.  There  are  other  swords, 
and  other  arms  to  wield  them,  beside  a  Leicester's 
and  a  Raleigh's.  Others  can  crush  their  enemies, 
and  serve  their  friends.  15 

Spenser.  O  my  sweet  child!  And  of  many  so 
powerful,  many  so  wise  and  so  beneficent,  was  there 
none  to  save  thee?  None!  none! 

Essex.  I  now  perceive  that  thou  lamentest  what 
almost  every  father  is  destined  to  lament.  Ilappi-zo 
ness  must  be  bought,  although  the  payment  may  be 
delayed.  Consider;  the  same  calamity  might  have 
befallen  thee  here  in  London.  Neither  the  houses 
of  ambassadors,  nor  the  palaces  of  kings,  nor  the 
altars  of  God  himself,  are  asylums  against  death.  25 
How  do  I  know  but  under  this  very  roof  there  may 
sleep  some  latent  calamity,  that  in  an  instant  shall 
cover  with  gloom  every  inmate  of  the  house,  and 
every  far  dependent? 

Spenser.    God  avert  it!  3,, 

Essex.  Every  day,  every  hour  of  the  year,  do  hun- 
dreds mourn  what  thou  mournest. 


ESSEX  AND   SPENSER.  93 

Spenser.  Oh,  no,  no,  no!  Calamities  there  are 
around  us;  calamities  there  are  all  over  the  earth; 
calamities  there  are  in  all  seasons:  but  none  in  any 
season,  none  in  any  place,  like  mine. 
5  Essex.  So  say  all  fathers,  so  say  all  husbands. 
Look  at  any  old  mansion-house,  and  let  the  sun 
shine  as  gloriously  as  it  may  on  the  golden  vanes,  or 
the  arms  recently  quartered  over  the  gateway  or  the 
embayed  window,  and  on  the  happy  pair  that  haply 

10 is  toying  at  it:  nevertheless,  thou  mayest  say  that 
of  a  certainty  the  same  fabric  hath  seen  much 
sorrow  within  its  chambers,  and  heard  many  wail- 
ings;  and  each  time  this  was  the  heaviest  stroke  of 
all.  Funerals  have  passed  along  through  the  stout- 

15  hearted  knights  upon  the  wainscot,  and  amid  the 
laughing  nymphs  upon  the  arras.  Old  servants 
have  shaken  their  heads,  as  if  somebody  had 
deceived  them,  when  they  found  that  beauty  and 
nobility  could  perish. 

20  Edmund!  the  things  that  are  too  true  pass  by  us 
as  if  they  were  not  true  at  all;  and  when  they  have 
singled  us  out,  then  only  do  they  strike  us.  Thou 
and  I  must  go  too.  Perhaps  the  next  year  may  blow 
us  away  with  its  fallen  leaves.* 

25  Spenser.  For  you,  my  lord,  many  years  (I  trust) 
are  waiting:  I  never  shall  see  those  fallen  leaves. 
No  leaf,  no  bud,  will  spring  upon  the  earth  before  I 
sink  into  her  breast  for  ever. 

Essex.   Thou,    who    art    wiser    than    most    men, 

aoshouldst  bear  with  patience,  equanimity,  and  cour- 
age what  is  common  to  all. 

Spenser.   Enough,  enough,  enough!     Have  all  men 
*  It  happened  so. 


94  ESSEX  AND   SPKNSER. 

seen    their    infant    burned    to    ashes   before   their 
eyes? 

Essex.   Gracious   God!   Merciful   Father!  what   is 
this? 

Spenser.   Burned   alive!  burned  to  ashes!  burned    5 
to  ashes!     The   flames  dart  their  serpent  tongues 
through  the  nursery-window.      I  cannot  quit  thee, 
my  Elizabeth!     I  cannot   lay  down  our   Edmund! 
Oh,   these   flames!     They  persecute,    they  enthrall 
me;  they  curl  round  my   temples;  they   hiss   upon  10 
my  brain;    they   taunt    me    with    their   fierce,    foul 
voices;  they  carp  at  me,  they  wither  me,  they  con- 
sume me,  throwing  back  to  me  a  little  of  life  to  roll 
and  suffer  in,  with   their  fangs  upon  me.     Ask  me, 
my  lord,  the  things  you  wish   to  know   from  me:   1  15 
may    answer    them;    1    am    now    composed    again. 
Command    me,    my    gracious    lord!       1    would    yet 
serve    you:    soon    I    shall    be    unable.       You    have 
stooped  to  raise  me  up;  you   have  borne   with  me; 
you   have  pitied   me,  even   like   one   not   powerful.  20 
You  have  brought  comfort,  and  will  leave  it  with  me; 
for  gratitude  is  comfort. 

Oh!  my  memory  stands  all  a  tip-toe  on  one  burn- 
ing point:  when  it  drops  from  it,  then  it  perishes. 
Spare  me:  ask  me  nothing;   let  me  weep  before  you  25 
in  peace, — the  kindest  act  of  greatness. 

Essex.    I  should  rather  have  dared   to  mount  into 
the    midst   of    the   conflagration    than    I    now    dare 
entreat  thee   not  to  weep.      The  tears  that  overflow 
thy  heart,  my  Spenser,  will   staunch   and   heal   it  in  30 
their  sacred  stream  ;   but    not  without   hope   in  God. 

tycnsi'r.    My  hope  in  God   is  that  I  may  soon  see 


ESSEX  AND   SPENSER.  95 

again  what  he  has  taken  from  me.  Amid  the  myriads 
of  angels,  there  is  not  one  so  beautiful;  and  even 
he  (if  there  be  any)  who  is  appointed  my  guardian 
could  never  love  me  so.  Ah!  these  are  idle 
5  thoughts,  vain  wanderings,  distempered  dreams. 
If  there  ever  were  guardian  angels,  he  who  so 
wanted  one — my  helpless  boy — would  not  have  left 
these  arms  upon  my  knees. 

Essex.  God    help   and   sustain    thee,    too    gentle 

10  Spenser!  I  never  will  desert  thee.  But  what  am  I? 
Great  they  have  called  me!  Alas,  how  powerless 
then  and  infantile  is  greatness  in  the  presence  of 
calamity! 

Come,  give    me    thy   hand:  let    us  walk   up  and 

15  down  the  gallery.  Bravely  done!  I  will  envy  no 
more  a  Sidney  or  a  Raleigh. 


ZTbe  Xafcp  OLisle  an&  EUsabetb  Oaunt. 

Lady  Lisle.  Madam,  I  am  confident  you  will 
pardon  me;  for  affliction  teaches  forgiveness. 

Elizabeth  Gaunt.  From  the  cell  of  the  condemned 
we  are  going,  unless  my  hopes  mislead  me,  where 
alone  we  can  receive  it.  5 

Tell  me,  I  beseech  you,  lady!  in  what  matter  or 
manner  do  you  think  you  can  have  offended  a  poor 
sinner  such  as  I  am.  Surely  we  come  into  this 
dismal  place  for  our  offences;  and  it  is  not  here  that 
any  can  be  given  or  taken.  10 

Lady  Lisle.  Just  now,  when  I  entered  the  prison, 
I  saw  your  countenance  serene  and  cheerful;  you 
looked  upon  me  for  a  time  with  an  unaltered  eye; 
you  turned  away  from  me,  as  I  fancied,  only  to  utter 
some  expressions  of  devotion;  and  again  you  looked  15 
upon  me,  and  tears  rolled  down  your  face.  Alas 
that  I  should,  by  any  circumstance,  any  action  or 
recollection,  make  another  unhappy!  Alas  that  I 
should  deepen  the  gloom  in  the  very  shadow  of 
death!  20 

Elizabeth  Gaunt.  He  comforted:  you  have  not 
done  it.  (irief  softens  and  melts  and  flows  away 
with  tears. 

I  wept  because  another  was  greatly  more  wretched 
than    myself.      1  wept  at  that    black    attire — at    that  25 
attire  of  modesty  and  of  widowhood. 


LADY  LISLE  AND  ELIZABETH  GAUNT.        97 

Lady  Lisle.  It  covers  a  wounded,  almost  a  broken 
heart — an  unworthy  offering  to  our  blessed 
Redeemer. 

Elizabeth  Gaunt.  In  his  name  let  us  now  rejoice! 
5  Let  us  offer  our  prayers  and  our  thanks  at  once 
together!  We  may  yield  up  our  souls,  perhaps,  at 
the  same  hour. 

Lady  Lisle.  Is  mine  so  pure?     Have  I  bemoaned, 

as  I  should  have  done,  the  faults  I  have  committed? 

10  Have  my  sighs  arisen  for  the  unmerited  mercies  of 

my  God;  and  not  rather  for  him,  the  beloved  of  my 

heart,  the  adviser  and  sustainer  I  have  lost? 

Open,  O  gates  of  Death! 

Smile  on  me,  approve  my  last  action  in  this  world, 
15  O  virtuous  husband!  O  saint  and  martyr!  my 
brave,  compassionate,  and  loving  Lisle! 

Elizabeth    Gaunt.   And     cannot    you,    too,    smile, 

sweet  lady?     Are  not  you  with  him  even  now?  Doth 

body,  doth  clay,  doth  air,  separate  and  estrange  free 

20  spirits?     Bethink  you  of  his  gladness,  of  his  glory; 

and  begin  to  partake  them. 

Oh!  how  could  an  Englishman,  how  could  twelve, 
condemn  to  death — condemn  to  so  great  an  evil  as 
they  thought  it  and  may  find  it — this  innocent  and 
25  helpless  widow? 

Lady  Lisle.  Blame  not  that  jury! — blame  not  the 
jury  which  brought  against  me  the  verdict  of  guilty. 
I  was  so:  I  received  in  my  house  a  wanderer  who 
had  fought  under  the  rash  and  giddy  Monmouth. 
30  He  was  hungry  and  thirsty,  and  I  took  him  in.  My 
Saviour  had  commanded,  my  King  had  forbidden  it. 

Yet  the  twelve  would  not  have  delivered  me  over 


98        LADY  LISLE   AXD   ELIZABETH  GAUNT. 

to  death,  unless  the  judge  had  threatened  them 
with  an  accusation  of  treason  in  default  of  it. 
Terror  made  them  unanimous:  they  redeemed  their 
properties  and  lives  at  the  stated  price. 

Elizabeth  Gaunt.   I  hope,  at  least,  the  unfortunate   5 
man  whom  you  received  in  the  hour  of  danger  may 
avoid  his  penalty. 

Lady  Lisle.  Let  us  hope  it. 

Elizabeth  Gaunt.  I,  too,  am  imprisoned  for  the 
same  offence;  and  I  have  little  expectation  that  he  10 
who  was  concealed  by  me  hath  any  chance  of  happi- 
ness, although  he  hath  escaped.  Could  I  find  the 
meansof  conveying  to  him  a  small  pittance,  I  should 
leave  the  world  the  more  comfortably. 

Lady  Lisle.   Trust    in    Clod;  not    in    one  thing  or  15 
another,  but  in  all.      Resign  the  care  of  this  wanderer 
to  his  guidance. 

Elizabeth  Gaunt.    He  abandoned  that  guidance. 

Lady  Lisle".  Unfortunate!  how  can  money  then 
avail  him?  20 

Elizabeth  Gaunt.  It  might  save  him  from  distress 
and  from  despair,  from  the  taunts  of  the  hard- 
hearted, and  from  the  inclemency  of  the  godly. 

Lady  Lisle.  In  godliness,  O  my  friend!  there  can- 
not be  inclemency.  25 

Elizabeth  Gaunt.  You  are  thinking  of  perfection, 
my  dear  lady;  and  I  marvel  not  at  it,  for  what  else 
hath  ever  occupied  your  thoughts!  Hut  godliness, 
in  almost  the  best  of  us,  often  is  austere,  often 
uncompliant  and  rigid— proner  to  reprove  than  1030 
pardon,  to  drag  back  or  thrust  aside  than  to  invite 
and  help  onward. 


LADY  LISLE  AND  ELIZABETH  GAUNT.        99 

Poor  man!  I  never  knew  him  before;  I  cannot 
tell  how  he  shall  endure  his  self-reproach,  or  whether 
it  will  bring  him  to  calmer  thoughts  hereafter. 

Lady  Lisle.  I   am   not  a   busy  idler  in  curiosity; 

5  nor,  if  I  were,   is  there    time  enough   left  me  for 

indulging  in  it;  yet  gladly  would  I  learn  the  history 

of  events,  at  the  first    appearance  so  resembling 

those  in  mine. 

Elizabeth  Gaunt.  The  person's  name  I  never  may 

lodisclose;  which  would  be  the  worst  thing  I  could 
betray  of  the  trust  he  placed  in  me.  He  took 
refuge  in  my  humble  dwelling,  imploring  me  in  the 
name  of  Christ  to  harbour  him  for  a  season.  Food 
and  raiment  were  afforded  him  unsparingly;  yet  his 

15  fears  made  him  shiver  through  them.  Whatever  I 
could  urge  of  prayer  and  exhortation  was  not  want- 
ing; still,  although  he  prayed,  he  was  disquieted. 
Soon  came  to  my  ears  the  declaration  of  the  King, 
that  his  Majesty  would  rather  pardon  a  rebel  than 

20  the  concealerof  a  rebel.  The  hope  was  a  faint  one; 
but  it  was  a  hope,  and  I  gave  it  him.  His  thanks- 
givings were  now  more  ardent,  his  prayers  more 
humble,  and  oftener  repeated.  They  did  not 
strengthen  his  heart:  it  was  unpurified  and  unpre- 

25  pared  for  them.  Poor  creature!  he  consented  with 
it  to  betray  me;  and  I  am  condemned  to  be  burned 
alive.  Can  we  believe,  can  we  encourage  the  hope, 
that  in  his  weary  way  through  life  he  will  find  those 
only  who  will  conceal  from  him  the  knowledge  of 

30  this  execution?     Heavily,  too  heavily,  must  it  weigh 
on  so  irresolute  and  infirm  a  breast. 
Let  it  not  move  you  to  weeping. 


100     LADY  LISLE  AND  ELIZABETH  GAUNT. 

Lady  Lisle.  It  does  not;  oh!  it  does  not. 

Elizabeth  Gaunt.  What,  then? 

Lady  Lisle.  Your  saintly  tenderness,  your  heavenly 
tranquillity. 

Elizabeth  Gaunt.   No,  no:  abstain!  abstain!  It  was   5 
I  who  grieved;  it  was  I  who  doubted.     Let  us  now 
be  firmer:  we  have  both  the  same  rock  to  rest  upon. 
See!  I  shed  no  tears. 

I  saved  his  life,  an  unprofitable  and  (I  fear)  a  joy- 
less one;  he,   by  God's  grace,  has  thrown  open  to  10 
me,  and  at  an  earlier  hour  than  ever  I  ventured  to 
expect  it,  the  avenue  to  eternal  bliss. 

Lady  Lisle.  O  my  good  angel!  that  bestrewest 
with  fresh  flowers  a  path  already  smooth  and  pleas- 
ant to  me,  may  those  timorous  men  who  have  K 
betrayed,  and  those  misguided  ones  who  have  prose- 
cuted us,  be  conscious  on  their  death-beds  that  we 
have  entered  it!  and  they  too  will  at  last  find  rest. 


Catharine.   Into  his  heart!  into  his  heart!     If  he 
escapes,  we  perish. 

Do  you  think,  Dashkof,  they  can  hear  me  through 
the  double  door?    Yes;  hark!  they  heard  me:  they 
5  have  done  it. 

What   bubbling  and   gurgling!    he   groaned   but 
once. 

Listen!  his  blood  is  busier  now  than  it  ever  was 
before.     I  should   not  have  thought  it  could  have 
10  splashed  so  loud  upon  the  floor,  although  our  bed, 
indeed,  is  rather  of  the  highest. 

Put  your  ear  against  the  lock. 

Dashkof.   I  hear  nothing. 

Catharine.   My  ears  are  quicker  than   yours,  and 

15  know    these   notes   better.     Let    me   come. — Hear 

nothing!     You  did  not  wait  long  enough,  nor  with 

coolness  and  patience.     There! — there  again!     The 

drops  are  now    like   lead:  every    half-minute    they 

penetrate  the  eider-down  and  the   mattress. — How 

20  now!  which  of  these  fools  has  brought  his  dog  with 

him?     What   tramping   and    lapping!    the  creature 

will  carry  the   marks  all  about  the  palace  with  his 

feet  and  muzzle. 

Dashkof.   Oh,  heavens! 
25      Catharine.   Are  you  afraid? 


102  THE  EMPRESS   CATHARINE 

Dashkof.   There  is  a   horror  that  surpasses  fear, 
and  will  have  none  of  it.     I  knew  not  this  before. 

Catharine.   You     turn     pale    and    tremble.      You 
should  have  supported  me,  in  case  I  had  required  it. 

Dashkof.   I  thought  only  of  the  tyrant.     Neither   5 
in  life  nor  in  death  could  any  one  of  these  mis- 
creants make  me   tremble.     But  the  husband  slain 
by  his  wife! — I  saw  not  into  my  heart;  I  looked  not 
into  it,  and  it  chastises  me. 

Catharine.    Dashkof,  are  you,  then,  really  unwell?  10 

Dashkof.  What   will    Russia,  what   will    Europe, 
say? 

Catharine.     Russia    has    no    more    voice     than    a 
whale.     She  may  toss  about  in  her  turbulence;  but 
my  artillery  (for  now,  indeed,  I  can   safely   call  it  15 
mine)  shall  stun  and  quiet  her. 

Dashkof.   God  grant— 

Catharine.   I  cannot  but  laugh  at  thee,  my  pretty 
Dashkof!      God  grant,  forsooth!     He  has  granted 
all  we  wanted   from  him    at    present — the    safe  re-  20 
moval  of  this  odious  Peter. 

Dashkof.  Yet  Peter  loved  you  ;  and  even  the 
worst  husband  must  leave,  surely,  the  recollection 
of  some  sweet  moments.  The  sternest  must  have 
trembled,  both  with  apprehension  and  with  hope,  25 
at  the  first  alteration  in  the  health  of  his  consort; 
at  the  first  promise  of  true  union,  imperfect  with- 
out progeny.  Then,  there  are  thanks  rendered  to- 
gether to  heaven,  and  satisfactions  communicated, 
and  infant  words  interpreted;  and  when  the  one  30 
has  failed  to  pacify  the  sharp  cries  of  babyhood, 
pettish  and  impatient  as  sovereignty  itself,  the 


AND  PRIXCESS  DAS11KOF.  103 

success  of  the  other  in  calming  it,  and  the  unenvied 
triumph  of  this  exquisite  ambition,  and  the  calm 
gazes  that  it  wins  upon  it. 

Catharine.    Are   these,   my    sweet     friend,   your 

5  lessons  from   the   Stoic   school?      Are    not    they, 

rather,    the   pale-faced    reflections    of    some    kind 

epithalamiast  from  Livonia  or  Bessarabia?     Come, 

come  away.     I  am  to  know  nothing  at  present  of  the 

deplorable  occurrence.     Did  not  you  wish  his  death? 

10     Dashkof.   It  is  not  his  death  that  shocks  me. 

Catharine.   I  understand  you:  beside,  you  said  as 
much  before. 

Dashkof.   I  fear  for  your  renown. 
Catharine.    And  for   your  own    good    name — ay, 
15  Dashkof? 

Dashkof.   He  was  not,  nor  did  I  ever  wish  him  to 
be,  my  friend. 

Catharine.   You  hated  him. 

Dashkof.    Even   hatred   may  be  plucked   up  too 
20  roughly. 

Catharine.     Europe  shall   be  informed  of  my  rea- 
sons,  if  she    should   ever  find  out  that  I    counte- 
nanced  the  conspiracy.       She  shall   be    persuaded 
that  her  repose  made  the   step   necessary;  that  my 
25  own  life  was  in  danger;  that  I  fell  upon   my  knees 
to  soften  the  conspirators;  that,  only  when   I  had 
fainted,  the  horrible  deed   was   done.     She    knows 
already  that  Peter  was  always  ordering   new  exer- 
cises and  uniforms;  and   my   ministers  can   evince 
30  at  the  first  audience  my  womanly  love  of  peace. 

Dashkof.   Europe  may  be  more  easily  subjugated 
than  duped. 


104  THE  EMPRESS  CA  THA  KIKE 

Catharine.   She  shall  be  both,  God  willing. 

Dashkof.  The  majesty  of  thrones   will  seem  en- 
dangered by  this  open  violence. 

Catharine.    The    majesty   of  thrones   is   never  in 
jeopardy  by  those  who  sit  upon  them.     A  sovereign    5 
may  cover  one  with  blood  more   safely  than  a  sub- 
ject can  pluck  a  feather  out   of  the   cushion.     It  is 
only  when   the  people  does  the   violence   that  we 
hear  an  ill  report  of  it.     Kings  poison  and  stab  one 
another  in   pure   legitimacy.       Do    your   republican  10 
ideas  revolt  from  such  a  doctrine? 

Dashkof.  I  do  not  question  this  right  of  theirs, 
and  never  will  oppose  their  exercise  of  it.  But  if 
you  prove  to  the  people  how  easy  a  matter  it  is  to 
extinguish  an  emperor,  and  how  pleasantly  and  15 
prosperously  we  may  live  after  it,  is  it  not  probable 
that  they  also  will  now  and  then  try  the  experiment; 
particularly,  if  any  one  in  Russia  should  hereafter 
hear  of  glory  and  honour,  and  how  immortal  are 
these  by  the  consent  of  mankind,  in  all  countries  20 
and  ages,  in  him  who  releases  the  world,  or  any 
part  of  it,  from  a  lawless  and  ungovernable  despot? 
The  chances  of  escape  are  many,  and  the  greater  if 
he  should  have  no  accomplices.  Of  his  renown 
there  is  no  doubt  at  all:  that  is  placed  above  25 
chance  and  beyond  time,  by  the  sword  he  hath 
exercised  so  righteously. 

Catliarinc.    True;    but  we  must  reason    like   demo- 
crats no  longer.      Republicanism   is   the   best    thing 
we  can  have,  when  we   cannot    have    power;   but   11030 
one     ever     held     the     two     together.       1    am     now 
autocrat. 


AND  PRINCESS  DASHKOF.  105 

Dashkof.  Truly,  then,  may  I  congratulate  you. 
The  dignity  is  the  highest  a  mortal  can  attain. 

Catharine.   I  know  and  feel  it. 

Dashkof.   I  wish  you  always  may. 
5      Catharine.   I  doubt  not  the  stability  of  power:  I 
can    make   constant  both    fortune   and    love.     My 
Dashkof  smiles  at   this  conceit:  she  has  here  the 
same  advantage,  and  does  not  envy  her  friend  even 
the  autocracy. 
10     Dashkof.     Indeed  I  do,  and  most  heartily. 

Catharine.   How? 

Dashkof.   I  know  very  well  what  those  intended 

who  first  composed  the  word;  but  they  blundered 

egregiously.       In  spite  of  them,  it  signifies  power 

15  over  oneself — of  all  power  the  most  enviable,  and 

the  least  consistent  with  power  over  others. 

I  hope  and  trust  there  is  no  danger  to  you  from 
any  member  of  the  council-board  inflaming  the 
guards  or  other  soldiery. 

20  Catharine.  The  members  of  the  council-board  did 
not  sit  at  it,  but  upon  it;  and  their  tactics  were 
performed  cross-legged.  What  partisans  are  to  be 
dreaded  of  that  commander-in-chief  whose  chief 
command  is  over  pantaloons  and  facings,  whose  ut- 
25  most  glory  is  perched  on  loops  and  feathers,  and 
who  fancies  that  battles  are  to  be  won  rather  by 
pointing  the  hat  than  the  cannon? 

Dashkof.    Peter  was  not  insensible   to   glory;  few 

men  are:  but  wiser  heads  than   his  have   been   per- 

3Qplexed  in  the  road  to  it,  and  many  have   lost  it  by 

their  ardour  to  attain  it.     I  have  always  said   that, 

unless  we  devote  ourselves  to   the   public   good,  we 


106  THE  EMPRESS   CATHARINE 

may  perhaps  be  celebrated;  but  it  is  beyond  the 
power  of  fortune,  or  even  of  genius,  to  exalt  us  above 
the  dust. 

Catharine.    Dashkof,    you    are   a    sensible,    sweet 
creature;  but  rather  too  romantic   on  principle,  and    5 
rather  too  visionary  on  glory.      I  shall  always  both 
esteem  and  love  you;  but  no  other  woman  in  Europe 
will  be  great  enough  to  endure  you,  and  you  will 
really  put  the  men  hors  dc  combat.     Thinking  is  an 
enemy  to  beauty,  and  no  friend  to  tenderness.      Men  10 
can  ill  brook  it  one  in  another;  in  women  it  renders 
them  what  they  would   fain  call    "scornful"    (vain 
assumption    of   high    prerogative!)    and    what   you 
would  find  bestial  and  outrageous.     As  for  my  rep- 
utation, which  1  know  is  dear  to   you,    I  can   pur-  15 
chase  all  the  best  writers  in  Europe  with  a  snuff- 
box each,  and  all  the  remainder  with    its   contents. 
Not  a  gentleman  of  the  Academy  but  is  enchanted 
by    a    toothpick,    if    1    deign    to   send    it    him.       A 
brilliant     makes    me    Semiramis;    a     watch-chain,  20 
Venus;  a  ring,  Juno.      Voltaire  is  my  friend. 

Dashkof.  Me  was  Frederick's. 

Catharine.   I  shall  be  the  Pucclle  of  Russia.     No! 
I  had  forgotten;  he  has  treated  her  scandalously. 

Dashkof.    Does  your  Majesty  value  the  flatteries  25 
of  a   writer  who   ridicules   the   most   virtuous    and 
glorious  of  his   nation;  who   crouched   before    that 
monster   of   infamy,    Louis  XV.  ;    and    that    worse 
monster,    the   king  his   predecessor?      He    reviled, 
with    every    indignity    and    indecency,   the    woman  30 
who   rescued    France;   and    who   alone,    of  all    that 
ever    led    the  armies    of    that    kingdom,    made    its 


AND  PRINCESS  DASHKOF.  107 

conquerors — the  English — tremble.  Its  monarchs 
and  marshals  cried  and  ran  like  capons,  flapping 
their  fine  crests  from  wall  to  wall,  and  cackling  at 
one  breath  defiance  and  surrender.  The  village 
5  girl  drew  them  back  into  battle,  and  placed  the 
heavens  themselves  against  the  enemies  of  Charles. 
She  seemed  supernatural:  the  English  recruits 
deserted;  they  would  not  fight  against  God. 

Catharine.   Fools  and  bigots! 

10  Dashkof.  The  whole  world  contained  none  other, 
excepting  those  who  fed  upon  them..  The  Maid  of 
Orleans  was  pious  and  sincere:  her  life  asserted  it; 
her  death  confirmed  it.  Glory  to  her,  Catharine,  if 
you  love  glory.  Detestation  to  him  who  has  pro- 
is  faned  the  memory  of  this  most  holy  martyr — the 
guide  and  avenger  of  her  king,  the  redeemer  and 
saviour  of  her  country. 

Catharine.  Be  it  so;  but   Voltaire   buoys  me  up 
above  some  impertinent,  troublesome  qualms. 
20     Dashkof.   If  Deism  had  been  prevalent  in  Europe, 
he  would  have  been  the  champion  of  Christianity; 
and  if  the  French  had  been  Protestants,  he  would 
have  shed  tears  upon  the  papal  slipper.    He  buoys  up 
no  one:  for  he  gives  no  one  hope.     He  may  amuse: 
25  dulness   itself    must  be    amused,    indeed,    by    the 
versatility  and  brilliancy  of  his  wit. 

Catharine.  While  I  was  meditating  on  the  great 
action  I  have  now  so  happily  accomplished,  I  some- 
times thought  his  wit  feeble.     This  idea,  no  doubt, 
30  originated    from    the    littleness    of    everything     in 
comparison  with  my  undertaking. 

Dashkof.   Alas!  we  lose  much  when  we  lose  the 


108  THE   EMPRESS  CATHARINE 

capacity  of  being  delighted  by  men  of  genius,  and 
gain  little  when  we  are  forced  to  run  to  them  for 
incredulity. 

Catharine.  I  shall  make  some  use  of  my  philoso- 
pher at  Ferney.  I  detest  him  as  much  as  you  do;  5 
but  where  will  you  find  me  another  who  writes  so 
pointedly?  You  really,  then,  fancy  that  people 
care  for  truth?  Innocent  Dashkof!  Believe  me, 
there  is  nothing  so  delightful  in  life  as  to  find  a 
liar  in  a  person  of  repute.  Have  you  never  heard  10 
good  folks  rejoicing  at  it?  Or,  rather,  can  you 
mention  to  me  any  one  who  has  not  been  in  raptures 
when  he  could  communicate  such  glad  tidings? 
The  goutiest  man  would  go  on  foot  without  a 
crutch  to  tell  his  friend  of  it  at  midnight;  and  15 
would  cross  the  Neva  for  the  purpose,  when  he 
doubted  whether  the  ice  would  bear  him.  Men, 
in  general,  are  so  weak  in  truth,  that  they  are 
obliged  to  put  their  bravery  under  it  to  prop  it. 
Why  do  they  pride  themselves,  think  you,  on  their  20 
courage,  when  the  bravest  of  them  is  by  many  de- 
grees less  courageous  than  a  mastiff-bitch  in  the 
straw?  It  is  only  that  they  may  be  rogues  without 
hearing  it,  and  make  their  fortunes  without  render- 
ing an  account  of  them.  25 

Now  we  chat  again  as  we  used  to  do.  Your 
spirits  and  your  enthusiasm  have  returned.  Courage, 
my  sweet  Dashkof;  do  not  begin  to  sigh  again. 
We  never  can  want  husbands  while  we  are  young 
and  lively.  Alas!  I  cannot  always  be  so.  Ileigholso 
Hut  serfs  and  preferment  will  do:  none  shall  re- 
fuse me  at  ninety — Paphos  or  Tobolsk. 


AND  PRINCESS  DASHKOF.  109 

Have  not  you  a  song  for  me? 
Dashkof.   German  or  Russian? 
Catharine.     Neither,     neither.       Some     frightful 
word  might  drop — might   remind  me — no,  nothing 

5  shall    remind   me.     French,   rather:    French  songs 
are  the  liveliest  in  the  world. 
Is  the  rouge  off  my  face? 

Dashkof.  It  is  rather  in  streaks  and  mottles; 
excepting  just  under  the  eyes,  where  it  sits  as  it 

10  should  do. 

Catharine.  I  am  heated  and  thirsty:  I  cannot  im- 
agine how.  I  think  we  have  not  yet  taken  our  cof- 
fee— was  it  so  strong?  What  am  I  dreaming  of?  I 
could  eat  only  a  slice  of  melon  at  breakfast;  my  duty 

15  urged  me  then,  and  dinner  is  yet  to  come.  Remem- 
ber, I  am  to  faint  at  the  midst  of  it  when  the  intel- 
ligence comes  in,  or  rather  when,  in  despite  of  every 
effort  to  conceal  it  from  me,  the  awful  truth  has 
flashed  upon  my  mind.  Remember,  too,  you  are  to 

20  catch  me,  and  to  cry  for  help,  and  to  tear  those 
fine  flaxen  hairs  which  we  laid  up  together  on  the 
toilet;  and  we  are  both  to  be  as  inconsolable  as  we 
can  be  for  the  life  of  us.  Not  now,  child,  not  now. 
Come,  sing.  I  know  not  how  to  fill  up  the  interval. 

25  Two  long  hours  yet! — how  stupid  and  tiresome!  I 
wish  all  things  of  the  sort  could  be  done  and  be 
over  in  a  day.  They  are  mightily  disagreeable  when 
by  nature  one  is  not  cruel.  People  little  know  my 
character.  I  have  the  tenderest  heart  upon  earth. 

30  I  am  courageous,  but  I  am  full  of  weaknesses.  I 
possess  in  perfection  the  higher  part  of  men,  and — 
to  a  friend  I  may  say  it — the  most  amiable  part  of 


110  THE  EMPRESS  CATHARINE. 

women.     Ho,    ho!    at    last   you   smile:    now    your 
thoughts  upon  that. 

Dashkof.   I  have  heard  fifty  men  swear  it. 

Catharine.   They  lied,  the  knaves  !  I  hardly  knew 
them   by   sight.      We    were    talking  of  the  sad   ne-    5 
cessity. — Ivan  must  follow  next:  he  is  heir  to  the 
throne.      I  have  a  wild,   impetuous,    pleasant  little 
proteg^,  who  shall    attempt    to  rescue  him.      I  will 
have  him  persuaded  and  incited  to  it,  and  assured 
of  pardon  on  the  scaffold.      He  can  never  know  the  10 
trick  we  play  him;  unless  his  head,  like  a  bottle  of 
Bordeaux,  ripens  its  contents  in  the  sawdust.     Or- 
ders are  given  that  Ivan  be  despatched  at  the  first 
disturbance  in  the  precincts  of  the  castle;  in  short, 
at  the  fire  of  the  sentry.      But  not  now, — another  15 
time:  two  such  scenes  together,  and  without  some 
interlude,  would  perplex  people. 

I  thought  we  spoke  of  singing:  do  not  make  me 
wait,  my  dearest  creature!  Now  cannot  you  sing 
as  usual,  without  smoothing  your  dove's-throat  with  20 
your  handkerchief,  and  taking  off  your  necklace? 
Give  it  me,  then;  give  it  me.  I  will  hold  it  for 
you:  I  must  play  with  something. 

Sing,  sing;  I  am  quite  impatient. 


Xeofrfc  anfc 

Godiva.  There  is  a  dearth  in  the  land,  my  sweet 
Leofric!  Remember  how  many  weeks  of  drought  we 
have  had,  even  in  the  deep  pastures  of  Leicester- 
shire; and  how  many  Sundays  we  have  heard  the 
5  same  prayers  for  rain,  and  supplications  that  it  would 
please  the  Lord  in  his  mercy  to  turn  aside  his  anger 
from  the  poor,  pining  cattle.  You,  my  dear  hus- 
band, have  imprisoned  more  than  one  malefactor 
for  leaving  his  dead  ox  in  the  public  way;  and  other 

10  hinds  have  fled  before  you  out  of  the  traces,  in 
which  they,  and  their  sons  and  their  daughters,  and 
haply  their  old  fathers  and  mothers,  were  dragging 
the  abandoned  wain  homeward.  Although  we  were 
accompanied  by  many  brave  spearmen  and  skilful 

15  archers,  it  was  perilous  to  pass  the  creatures  which 
the  farm-yard  dogs,  driven  from  the  hearth  by  the 
poverty  of  their  masters,  were  tearing  and  devour- 
ing; while  others,  bitten  and  lamed,  filled  the  air 
either  with  long  and  deep  howls  or  sharp  and  quick 

20  barkings,  as  they  struggled  with  hunger  and  feeble- 
ness, or  were  exasperated  by  heat  and  pain.  Nor 
could  the  thyme  from  the  heath,  nor  the  bruised 
branchesof  the  fir-tree,  extinguish  or  abate  the  foul 
odour. 

25  Leofric.  And  now,  Godiva,  my  darling,  thou  art 
afraid  we  should  be  eaten  up  before  we  enter  the 


112  LEOFKIC  AND   GODIVA. 

gates  of  Coventry;  or  perchance  that  in  the  gardens 
there  are  no  roses  to  greet  thee,  no  sweet  herbs  for 
thy  mat  and  pillow. 

Godiva.  Leofric,  1  have  no  such  fears.  This  is 
the  month  of  roses:  J  find  them  everywhere  since  5 
my  blessed  marriage.  They,  and  all  other  sweet 
herbs,  I  know  not  why,  seem  to  greet  me  wherever 
I  look  at  them,  as  though  they  knew  and  expected 
me.  Surely  they  cannot  feel  that  I  am  fond  of 
them.  I0 

Leofric.  O  light,  laughing  simpleton!  But  what 
wouldst  thou?  I  came  not  hither  to  pray;  and  yet 
if  praying  would  satisfy  thee,  or  remove  the  drought, 
I  would  ride  up  straightway  to  Saint  Michael's  and 
pray  until  morning. 

Godiva.  I  would  do  the  same,  O  Leofric!  but  God 
hath  turned  away  his  ear  from  holier  lips  than  mine. 
Would  my  own  dear  husband  hear  me,  if  I  implored 
him  for  what  is  easier  to  accomplish, — what  he  can 
do  like  God?  20 

Leofric.    How!  what  is  it? 

Godiva.  I  would  not,  in  the  first  hurry  of  your 
wrath,  appeal  to  you,  my  loving  Lord,  in  behalf  of 
these  unhappy  men  who  have  offended  you. 

Leofric.    Unhappy!  is  that  all?  25 

Godiva.  Unhappy  they  must  surely  be,  to  have 
offended  you  so  grievously.  What  a  soft  air  breathes 
over  us!  how  quiet  and  serene  and  still  an  evening! 
how  calm  are  the  heavens  and  the  earth  !— Shall  none 
enjoy  them;  not  even  we,  my  Leofric?  The  sun  is  30 
ready  to  set:  let  it  never  set,  O  Leofric,  on  your 
anger.  These  are  not  my  words:  they  are  better 


LEOFRIC  AND  GODIVA.  i»3 

than  mine.     Should  they  lose  their  virtue  from  my 
unworthiness  in  uttering  them? 

Leofric.   Godiva,  wouldst   thou   plead   to  me  for 
rebels? 

5      Godiva.  They  have,  then,  drawn  the  sword  against 
you?     Indeed,  I  knew  it  not. 

Leofric.  They  have  omitted  to  send  me  my  dues, 

established  by  my  ancestors,  well  knowing  of  our 

nuptials,  and  of  the  charges  and  festivities  they  re- 

10  quire,  and  that  in  a  season  of  such  scarcity  my  own 

lands  are  insufficient. 

Godiva.   If  they  were  starving,  as  they  said  they 

were 

Leofric.   Must  I  starve  too?     Is  it  not  enough  to 
15  lose  my  vassals? 

Godiva.  Enough!  O  God!  too  much!  too  much! 
May  you  never  lose  them!  Give  them  life,  peace, 
comfort,  contentment.  There  are  those  among 
them  who  kissed  me  in  my  infancy,  and  who  blessed 
20 me  at  the  baptismal  font.  Leofric,  Leofric!  the 
first  old  man  I  meet  I  shall  think  is  one  of  those; 
and  I  shall  think  on  the  blessing  he  gave,  and  (ah 
me!)  on  the  blessing  I  bring  back  to  him.  My  heart 
will  bleed,  will  burst;  and  he  will  weep  at  it!  he  will 
25  weep,  poor  soul,  for  the  wife  of  a  cruel  lord  who 
denounces  vengeance  on  him,  who  carries  death 
into  his  family! 

Leofric.   We  must  hold  solemn  festivals. 
Godiva.   We  must,  indeed. 
3o      Leofric.   Well,  then? 

Godiva.   Is  the  clamorousness  that    succeeds  the 
death  of  God's  dumb  creatures,  are  crowded  halls, 


114  LEOFRIC  AND   GODIVA. 

are  slaughtered  cattle,  festivals? — are  maddening 
songs,  and  giddy  dances,  and  hireling  praises  from 
parti-coloured  coats?  Can  the  voice  of  a  minstrel 
tell  us  better  things  of  ourselves  than  our  own  in- 
ternal one  might  tell  us;  or  can  his  breath  make  our  5 
breath  softer  in  sleep?  O  my  beloved!  let  every- 
thing be  a  joyance  to  us:  it  will,  if  we  will.  Sad  is 
the  day,  and  worse  must  follow,  when  we  hear 
the  blackbird  in  the  garden,  and  do  not  throb  with 
joy.  But,  Leofric,  the  high  festival  is  strown  by  10 
the  servant  of  God  upon  the  heart  of  man.  It  is 
gladness,  it  is  thanksgiving;  it  is  the  orphan,  the 
starveling,  pressed  to  the  bosom,  and  bidden  as  its 
first  commandment  to  remember  its  benefactor. 
We  will  hold  this  festival;  the  guests  are  ready:  we  15 
may  keep  it  up  for  weeks,  and  months,  and  years 
together,  and  always  be  the  happier  and  the  richer 
for  it.  The  beverage  of  this  feast,  O  Leofric,  is 
sweeter  than  bee  or  flower  or  vine  can  give  us:  it 
flows  from  heaven;  and  in  heaven  will  it  abundantly  20 
be  poured  out  again  to  him  who  pours  it  out  here 
unsparingly. 

Leofric.   Thou  art  wild. 

Godira.  I  have,  indeed,  lost  myself.  Some  Power, 
some  good  kind  Power,  melts  me  (body  and  soul  25 
and  voice)  into  tenderness  and  love.  O  my  hus- 
band, we  must  obey  it.  Look  upon  me!  look  upon 
me!  lift  your  sweet  eyes  from  the  ground!  J  will 
not  cease  to  supplicate;  I  dare  not. 

Leofric.   We  may  think  upon  it.  3° 

Godira.    Never      say    that!     What!     think     upon 
goodness  when    you    can     be   good'     Let  not    the 


LEOFRIC  AND  GODIVA.  11$ 

infants  cry  for  sustenance!  The  mother  of  our 
blessed  Lord  will  hear  them;  us  never,  never  after- 
ward. 

Leofric.   Here  comes  the  Bishop:   we  are  but  one 

Smile  from  the  walls.     Why  clismountest  thou?    no 

bishop  can  expect  it.     Godiva!  my  honour  and  rank 

among  men  are  humbled  by  this.     Earl  Godwin  will 

hear  of  it.     Up!  up!  the  Bishop  hath  seen  it:    he 

urgeth  his   horse  onward.     Dost  thou  not  hear  him 

10  now  upon  the  solid  turf  behind  thee? 

Godiva.  Never,  no,  never  will  I  rise,  O  Leofric, 
until  you  remit  this  most  impious  tax, — this  tax  on 
hard  labour,  on  hard  life. 

Leofric.  Turn  round:  look  how  the  fat  nag  canters, 

15  as  to  the  tune  of  a  sinner's  psalm,  slow  and  hard- 

breathing.     What   reason   or  right  can  the  people 

have  to  complain,  while  their  bishop's  steed  is  so 

sleek  and  well  caparisoned?     Inclination  to  change, 

desire  to  abolish  old  usages. — Up!  up!   for  shame! 

20 They  shall  smart  for  it,  idlers!  Sir  Bishop,  I  must 

blush  for  my  young  bride. 

Godiva.  My  husband,  my  husband!  will  you  par- 
don the  city? 

Leofric.   Sir  Bishop!  I  could  not  think  you  would 

25  have  seen  her  in  this  plight.     Will  I  pardon?     Yea, 

Godiva,  by  the  holy  rood,  will  I  pardon  the  city, 

when   thou   ridest   naked   at   noontide  through   the 

streets! 

Godiva.   O  my  dear,   cruel   Leofric,    where  is  the 
30 heart  you  gave  me?     It  was  not  so:  can  mine  have 
hardened  it? 

Bishop.   Earl,     thou    abashest    thy    spouse;    she 


n6  LEO  PR  1C  AXD   GOD1VA. 

turneth  pale,  and  weepeth.    Lady  Godiva,  peace  be 
with  thee. 

Godiva.  Thanks,  holy  man!  peace  will  be  with  me 
when  peace  is  with  your  city.  Did  you  hear  my 
Lord's  cruel  word?  5 

Bishop.   I  did,  lady. 

Godiva.  Will  you  remember  it,  and  pray  against  it. 

Bishop.   Wilt  thou  forget  it,  daughter? 

Godiva.   I  am  not  offended. 

Bishop.  Angel  of  peace  and  purity  10 

Godiva.  But  treasure  it  up  in  your  heart:  deem  it 
an  incense,  good  only  when  it  is  consumed  and 
spent,  ascending  with  prayer  and  sacrifice.  And, 
now,  what  was  it? 

Bishop.   Christ  save  us !  that  he  will  pardon  the  city  15 
when  thou  ridest  naked  through  the  streets  at  noon. 

Godiva.    Did  he  not  swear  an  oath? 

Bishop.    He  sware  by  the  holy  rood. 

Godiva.  My  Redeemer,  thou  hast  heard  it!  save 
the  city!  20 

Leofric.  We  are  now  upon  the  beginning  of  the 
pavement:  these  are  the  suburbs.  Let  us  think  of 
feasting:  we  may  pray  afterward;  to-morrow  we 
shall  rest. 

Godiva.   No  judgments,  then,  to-morrow,  Leofric?  25 

Leofric.    None:   we  will  carouse. 

Godiva.  The  saints  of  heaven  have  given  me 
strength  and  confidence;  my  prayers  are  heard;  the 
heart  of  my  beloved  is  now  softened. 

Lcofric  (aside}.    Ay,  ay — they  shall  smart,  though.  30 

Godiva.  Say,  dearest  i.eofric,  is  there  indeed  no 
other  hope,  no  other  mediation? 


LEOFRIC  AND   CO  DIVA.  II? 

Leofric.  I  have  sworn.  Beside,  thou  hast  made 
me  redden  and  turn  my  face  away  from  thee,  and 
all  the  knaves  have  seen  it:  this  adds  to  the  city's 
crime. 

5      Godiva.  I  have  blushed  too,  Leofric,  and  was  not 
rash  nor  obdurate. 

Leofric.  But  thou,  my  sweetest,  art  given  to 
blushing:  there  is  no  conquering  it  in  thee.  I  wish 
thou  hadst  not  alighted  so  hastily  and  roughly:  it 

10  hath  shaken  down  a  sheaf  of  thy  hair.  Take  heed 
thou  sit  not  upon  it,  lest  it  anguish  thee.  Well 
done!  it  mingleth  now  sweetly  with  the  cloth  of 
gold  upon  the  saddle,  running  here  and  there,  as  if 
it  had  life  and  faculties  and  business,  and  were 

15  working  thereupon  some  newer  and  cunninger 
device.  O  my  beauteous  Eve!  there  is  a  Paradise 
about  thee!  the  world  is  refreshed  as  thou  movest 
and  breathest  on  it.  I  cannot  see  or  think  of  evil 
where  thou  art.  I  could  throw  my  arms  even  here 

2oabout  thee.  No  signs  for  me!  no  shaking  of  sun- 
beams! no  reproof  or  frown  or  wonderment — I  will 
say  it — now  then  for  worse — I  could  close  with  my 
kisses  thy  half-open  lips,  ay,  and  those  lovely  and 
loving  eyes,  before  the  people. 

25  Godiva.  To-morrow  you  shall  kiss  me,  and  they 
shall  bless  you  for  it.  I  shall  be  very  pale,  for  to- 
night I  must  fast  and  pray. 

Leofric.  I  do  not  hear  thee;  the  voices  of  the  folk 
are  so  loud  under  this  archway. 

30  Godiva  (to  /terse//).  God  help  them!  good  kind 
souls!  I  hope  they  will  not  crowd  about  me  so  to- 
morrow. O  Leofric!  could  my  name  be  forgotten, 


n8  LEOFRIC  AND   GO  DIVA. 

and  yours  alone  remembered!  But  perhaps  my 
innocence  may  save  me  from  reproach;  and  how 
many  as  innocent  are  in  fear  and  famine!  No  eye 
will  open  on  me  but  fresh  from  tears.  What  a 
young  mother  for  so  large  a  family!  Shall  my  5 
youth  harm  me?  Under  God's  hand  it  gives  me 
courage.  Ah!  when  will  the  morning  come?  Ah! 
when  will  the  noon  be  over? 

The  story  of  Godiva,  at  one  of  whose  festivals  or  fairs  I  was 
present  in  my  boyhood,  h.is  always  much  interested  me  ;  and  I  10 
wrote  a  poem  on  it,  sitting,  I  remember,  by  the  square  pool  at 
Rugby.  When  I  showed  it  to  the  friend  in  whom  I  had  most 
confidence,  he  began  to  scoff  at  the  subject  ;  and,  on  his  reaching 
the  last  line,  his  laughter  was  loud  and  immoderate.  This  Con- 
versation has  brought  both  laughter  and  stanza  back  to  me,  and  15 
the  earnestness  with  which  I  entreated  and  implored  my  friend 
not  to  tell  the  Jtu/s,  so  heart-strickenly  and  desperately  was 
I  ashamed.  The  verses  are  these,  if  any  one  else  should  wish 
another  laugh  at  me  : 

In  every  hour,  in  ever}'  mood,  20 

O  lady,  it  is  sweet  and  good 

To  bathe  the  soul  in  prayer; 
And,  at  the  close  of  such  a  day, 
When  we  have  rcased  to  bless  and  pray, 

To  dream  on  thy  long  hair.  25 

May  the  peppermint  be  still  growing  on  the  bank  in  that  place  ! 

W.  S.  L. 


IDittorfa  Colonna 
an&  flDicbeUBnoelo  Buonarrotti. 


Vittoria.  It  was  beautifully  and  piously  said  in 
days  of  old,  that,  wherever  a  spring  rises  from  the 
earth,  an  altar  should  be  erected.  Ought  not  we, 
my  friend,  to  bear  the  same  veneration  to  the  genius 
5  which  springs  from  obscurity  in  the  loneliness  of 
lofty  places,  and  which  descends  to  irrigate  the 
pastures  of  the  mind  with  a  perennial  freshness  and 
vivifying  force?  If  great  poets  build  their  own 
temples,  as  indeed  they  do,  let  us  at  least  offer  up 

10  to  them  our  praises  and  thanksgivings,  and  hope  to 
render  them  acceptable  by  the  purest  incense  of  the 
heart. 

Michel-Angela.  First,  we  must  find  the  priests; 
for  ours  are  inconvertible  from*  their  crumbling 

15  altars.  Too  surely  we  are  without  an  Aristoteles 
to  precede  and  direct  them. 

Vittoria.  We  want  him,  not  only  for  poetry,  but 
philosophy.  Much  of  the  dusty  perfumery,  which 
thickened  for  a  season  the  pure  air  of  Attica,  was 

20  dissipated  by  his  breath.  Calm  reasoning,  deep 
investigation,  patient  experiment,  succeeded  to  con- 
tentious quibbles  and  trivial  irony.  The  sun  of 
Aristoteles  dispersed  the  unwholesome  vapour  that 
arose  from  the  garden  of  Academus.  Instead  of 


120  VITTORIA    CQLOXNA 

spectral  demons,  instead  of  the  monstrous  progeny 
of  mystery  and  immodesty,  there  arose  tangible 
images  of  perfect  symmetry.  Homer  was  recalled 
from  banishment;  yKschylus  followed;  the  choruses 
bowed  before  him,  divided,  and  took  their  stands.  5 
Symphonies  were  heard, — what  symphonies!  so 
powerful  as  to  lighten  the  chain  that  Jupiter  had 
riveted  on  his  rival.  The  conquerors  of  kings  until 
then  omnipotent, — kings  who  had  trampled  on  the 
towers  of  Babylon,  and  had  shaken  the  eternal  10 
sanctuaries  of  Thebes, — the  conquerors  of  these 
kings  bowed  their  olive-crowned  heads  to  the 
sceptre  of  Destiny,  and  their  tears  ran  profusely 
over  the  immeasurable  wilderness  of  human  woes. 

Michel-Angeh.   We   have   no   poetry  of  this   kind  15 
now,  nor  have  we  auditors  who  could  estimate  or 
know  it  if  we  had.     Yet,  as  the  fine  arts  have  raised 
up  their  own  judges,  literature  may,  ere  long,  do  the 
same.      Instead  of  undervaluing  and  beating  down, 
let  us  acknowledge  and   praise  any  resemblance  we  20. 
may  trace  to  the  lineaments  of  a  past  and  stronger 
generation. 

Vittoria.    But,    by    the    manners    and     habitudes 
of    antiquity,     ours    are    little     to    be    improved. 
Scholars    who    scorn    the    levity    of    Ariosto,    and  25 
speak  disdainfully  of  the  Middle  Ages,  in  the  very 
centre  of  the  enchantment  thrown  over  them  by  the 
magician  of  Ferrara,  never  think  how  much  \ve  owe, 
not  only  to  him,  but  also  to  those  ages:  never  think 
by  what  energies,  corporeal  and  mental,  from  the  bar-  30 
barous  soldier  rose   the   partially  polished   knight; 
and  high  above  him,  by  slower  degrees,  the  accom- 


AND  MICHEL-ANGELO  BUONARROTI.        121 

plished    and    perfect    gentleman,    the    summit    of 
nobility. 

Michel-Angdo.  Oh  that  Pescara  were  present!  — 
Pescara!  whom  your  words  seem  to  have  embodied 
sand  recalled! — Pescara!  the  lover  of  all  glory,  but 
mostly  of  yours,  Madonna! — he  to  whom  your 
beauty  was  eloquence  and  your  eloquence  beauty, 
inseparable  as  the  influences  of  Deity. 

Vittoria.    Present!  and   is   he  not?     Where  I  am, 

10  there  is  he,  for  evermore.  Earth  may  divide; 
Heaven  never  does.  The  beauty  you  speak  of  is  the 
only  thing  departed  from  me,  and  that  also  is  with 
him,  perhaps.  He  may — I  hope  he  may — see  me 
as  he  left  me;  only  more  pacified,  more  resigned. 

15  After  I  had  known  Pescara,  even  if  I  had  never 
been  his,  I  should  have  been  espoused  to  him; 
espoused  to  him  before  the  assembled  testimonies 
of  his  innumerable  virtues, — before  his  genius,  his 
fortitude,  his  respectful  superiority,  his  manly 

20 gentleness.  Yes,  I  should  have  been  married  to  his 
glory;  and,  neither  in  his  lifetime  nor  when  he  left 
the  world,  would  I  have  endured,  O  Michel-Angelo, 
any  other  alliance.  The  very  thought,  the  very 
words  conveying  it,  are  impiety.  But  friendship 

25  helps  to  support  that  heavy  pall  to  which  the 
devoted  cling  tenaciously  for  ever. 

Michd- Angela.   Oh!  that  at  this  moment 

Vittoria.   Hush!  hush!     Wishes   are    by-paths   on 
the  declivity  to  unhappiness:  the  weaker  terminate 

30 in  the  sterile  sand;  the  stronger,  the  vale  of  tears. 
If  there  are  griefs — which  we  know  there  are — so 
intense  as  to  deprive  us  of  our  intellects,  griefs  in 


122  VITTORIA    COLONNA 

the  next  degree  of  intensity,  far  from  depriving  us 
of  them,  amplify,  purify,  regulate,  and  adorn  them. 
We  sometimes  spring  above  happiness,  and  fall  on 
the  other  side.  This  hath  happened  to  me;  but 
strength  enough  is  left  me  to  raise  myself  up  again,  5 
and  to  follow  the  guide  who  calls  me. 

Michel-Angelo.  Surely  God  hath  shown  that  mor- 
tal what  his  own  love  is,  for  whom  he  hath  har- 
monised a  responsive  bosom,  warm  in  the  last  as  in 
the  first  embraces.  One  look  of  sympathy,  one  10 
regret  at  parting,  is  enough,  is  too  much:  it  bur- 
dens the  heart  with  overpayment.  You  cannot 
gather  up  the  blossoms  which,  by  blast  after  blast, 
have  been  scattered  and  whirled  behind  you.  Are 
they  requisite?  The  fruit  was  formed  within  them  15 
ere  they  fell  upon  the  walk;  you  have  culled  it  in  its 
season. 

I'ittoria.    Before  we  go  into  another  state  of  exist- 
ence, a  thousand   things  occur  to  detach   us   imper- 
ceptibly  from   this.      To   some  (who  knows  to  how  20 
many?)    the    images   of   early    love    return    with    an 
inviting  yet  a  saddening  glance,  and  the  breast  that 
was  laid  out  for  the  sepulchre  bleeds  afresh.      Such 
are  ready  to  follow  where  they  are  beckoned,  and 
look   keenly  into   the   darkness   they  are  about   1025 
penetrate. 

Did  we  not  begin  to  converse  on  another  subject? 
Why  have  you  not  spoken  to  me  this  half-hour? 

Afichel-Angeht.    1   see,   (.)    Donna   Yittoria,   1    may 
close  the  volume  we  were  to  read  and  criticise.  30 

l'itl(>riii.    Then,  I  hope  you  have  something  of  your 
own  for  me  instead. 


AND  MICHEL-ANGELO  BUONARROTI.        123 

Michel-Angela.  Are  you  not  tired  of  my  verses? 
Your  smile  is  too  splendid  a  reward,  but  too  indis- 
tinct an  answer.     Pray,  pray  tell  me,  Madonna! — 
and  yet  I  have  hardly  the  courage  to  hear  you  tell 
5  me — have  I  not  sometimes  written  to  you 

Vittoria.  My  cabinet  can  answer  for  that.  Lift 
up  your  sphinx,  if  you  desire  to  find  it.  Any  thing 
in  particular? 

Michel-Angela.  I    would     say,     written    to    you 
10  with 

Vittoria.  With  what?    A  golden  pen? 

Michel- Angela.   No,  no. 

Vittoria.  An  adamantine  one? 

You  child!  you  child!  are  you  hiding  it   in   my 

15  sleeve?      An    eagle's    plume?    a    nightingale's?    a 

dove's?     I  must  have  recourse  to  the  living  sphinx, 

if  there   is  any,  not  to  the  porphyry.     Have  you 

other  pens  than  these?     I  know  the  traces  of  them 

all;  and  am  unwilling  to  give  you   credit  for  any 

20  fresh  variety.     But  come,  tell  me,  what  is  it? 

Michel-Angela.  I  am  apprehensive  that  I  some- 
times have  written  to  you  with  an  irrepressible  gush 
of  tenderness,  which  is  but  narrowed  and  deepened 
and  precipitated  by  entering  the  channel  of  verse. 
25  This,  falling  upon  vulgar  ears,  might  be  misin- 
terpreted. 

Vittoria.  If  I  have  deserved  a  wise  man's  praise 
and  a  virtuous  man's  affection,  I  am  not  to  be 
defrauded  of  them  by  stealthy  whispers,  nor  de- 
3oterred  from  them  by  intemperate  clamour.  She 
whom  Pescara  selected  for  his  own  must  excite  the 
envy  of  too  many;  but  the  object  of  envy  is  not  the 


124  VITTORIA    COLONNA. 

sufferer  by  it:  there  are  those  who  convert  it  even 
into  recreation.  One  star  hath  ruled  my  destiny 
and  shaped  my  course.  Perhaps, — no,  not  perhaps, 
but  surely, — under  that  clear  light  I  may  enjoy 
unreproved  the  enthusiasm  of  his  friend, — the  5 
greatest  man,  the  most  ardent  and  universal  genius, 
he  has  left  behind  him.  Courage!  courage!  Lift 
up  again  the  head  which  nothing  on  earth  should 
lower.  When  death  approaches  me,  be  present, 
Michel-Angelo,  and  shed  as  pure  tears  on  this  hand  10 
as  I  did  shed  on  the  hand  of  Pescara. 

Michel-Angelo.   Madonna,    they   are    these;    they 
are  these!     Endure  them  now,  rather! 

Merciful  God!  if  there  is  piety  in  either,  grant  me 
to  behold  her  at   that  hour,  not  in  the  palace  of  a  15 
hero,  not  in  the  chamber  of  a  saint,  but  from  thine 
everlasting  mansions! 


General  Ikteber  anfc  jfrencb  Officers. 

AN  English  officer  was  sitting  with  his  back 
against  the  base  of  the  Great  Pyramid.  He  some- 
times looked  toward  those  of  elder  date  and  ruder 
materials  before  him,  sometimes  was  absorbed  in 
5  thought,  and  sometimes  was  observed  to  write  in  a 
pocket-book  with  great  rapidity. 

"If  he  were  not  writing,"  said  a  French  natural- 
ist to  a  young  ensign,  "  I   should  imagine  him  to 
have  lost  his  eyesight  by  the  ophthalmia.     He  does 
10  not  see  us:  level  your  rifle;  we  cannot  find  a  greater 
curiosity." 

The  arts  prevailed:  the  officer  slided  with 
extended  arms  from  his  resting-place;  the  blood, 
running  from  his  breast,  was  audible  as  a  swarm  of 
15  insects  in  the  sand.  No  other  sound  was  heard. 
Powder  had  exploded;  life  had  passed  away:  not  a 
vestige  remained  of  either. 

"  Let  us  examine  his  papers,"  said  the  naturalist. 
"Pardon  me.  sir,"  answered    the    ensign:     "my 
20  first    inquiry    on    such    occasions  is   What's  o'clock? 
and    afterward    I     pursue    my    mineralogical    re- 
searches." 

At   these   words  he   drew  forth    the  dead  man's 
watch,   and  stuck  it  into   his  sash,   while  with  the 
25  other  hand  he  snatched    out    a    purse    containing 
some  zecchins:    every  part  of   the  dress  was   ex- 
amined, and  not  quite  fruitlessly. 


126  GENERAL   KLEBER. 

"See!  a  locket  with  the  miniature  of  a  young 
woman!"  Such  it  was:  a  modest  and  lovely 
countenance. 

"Ha!  ha!"  said  the  ensign:  "a  few  touches, 
a  very  few  touches,- — 1  can  give  them, — and  Adela  5 
will  take  this  for  me.  Two  inches  higher,  and  the 
ball  had  split  it:  what  a  thoughtless  man  he  was! 
There  is  gold  in  it  too:  it  weighs  heavy.  Peste!  an 
old  woman  at  the  back,  gray  as  a  cat." 

It  was  the  officer's  mother,  in  her  old  age,  as  he  10 
had  left  her.     There  was  something  of  sweet  piety, 
not  unsaddened    by    presage,  in    the   countenance. 
He  severed  it  with  his  knife,  and  threw  it  into  the 
bosom   of  her   son.     Two  foreign   letters  and  two 
pages   in   pencil  were   the  contents  of  the   pocket-  15 
book.       Two    locks     of    hair  had    fallen    out:    one 
rested  on  his  eye-lashes,  for  the  air  was  motionless, 
the  other  was  drawn  to  the  earth  by  his  blood. 

The  papers  were   taken  to  General  Kleber  by  the 
naturalist  and  his  associate,  with  a  correct   recital  20 
of  the  whole  occurrence;  excepting  the  appendages 
of  watch,  zecchins,  and  locket. 

"Young  man,"  said   Kleber  gravely,    "is   this  a 
subject  of  merriment  to  you?     Who  knows  whether 
you  or  I  may   not  be  deprived  of  life  as  suddenly  25 
and  unexpectedly?     lie  was   not  your  enemy:   per- 
haps  he   was  writing   to  a   mother  or  sister.      God 
help  them!  these   suffer   most  from  war:  the  heart 
of   the  far-distant   is    the   scene    of  its   most   cruel 
devastations.      Leave  the  papers;  you  may  go:  call  3° 
the  interpreter." 

He  entered. 


GENERAL  KLEBER.  127 

"Read  this  letter." 

"  My  adored  Henry " 

"Give  it  me,  "cried  the  general:  he  blew  a  strong 
fire  from  his  pipe  and  consumed  it. 
5      "Read  the  other." 

"  My  kind-hearted  and  beloved  son " 

"Stop:  read  the  last  line  only." 
The   interpreter  answered,  "It  contains  merely 
the  name  and  address." 

10      "  I  ask  no  questions:  read  them,  and  write  them 
down  legibly." 

He    took  the   paper,    tore    off  the    margin,    and 
placed  the  line  in  his  snuff-box. 

"Give  me  that  paper  in  pencil,  with  the  mark  of 
15  sealing-wax  on  it." 

He  snatched   it,  shook  some   snuff  upon   it,  and 
shrunk  back.     It  was  no  sealing-wax;  it  was  a  drop 
of  blood:  one  from  the  heart, — one  only;  dry,  but 
seeming  fresh. 
20      "Read." 

"  Yes,  my  dear  mother,  the  greatest  name  that  exists  among 
mortals  is  that  of  Sidney.  He  who  now  bears  it  in  the  front  of 
battle  could  not  succour  me.  I  had  advanced  too  far  :  I  am  how- 
ever no  prisoner.  Take  courage,  my  too  fond  mother  :  I  am 
25  among  the  Arabs,  who  detest  the  French  ;  they  liberated  me. 
They  report,  I  know  not  upon  what  authority,  that  Bonaparte  has 
deserted  his  army,  and  escaped  from  Egypt." 

"  Stop  instantly,"  cried  Kleber,  rising.      "  Gentle- 
men,"   added    he     to  his   staff-officers,    "  my  duty 
3°  obliges  me  to  hear  this    unbecoming  language  on 


128  GENERAL   A'I.EBER. 

your    late   commander-in-chief:    retire    you   a    few 
moments. — Continue." 

"  He  hates  every  enemy  according  to  his  courage  and  his 
virtues :  lie  abominates  what  he  cannot  debase,  at  home  or 
abroad."  5 

"Oh!"  whispered  Kleber  to  himself,  "he  knows 
the  man  so  well!  " 

"  The  first  then  are  Nelson  and  Sir  Sidney  Smith,  whose  friends 
could  expect  no  mercy  at  his  hands.     If  the  report  be  anything 
better   than   an  Arabian  tale,  I  will  surrender    myself  to   his  sue-  10 
cessor  as  prisoner  of  war,  and    perhaps  may  be  soon  exchanged. 
How  will  this  little  leaf  reach  you  ?     God  knows  how  and  when!  " 

"  Is  there  nothing  else  to  examine?  " 

"  One  more  leaf." 

"Read  it."  15 

"WRITTF.N    IN    KNCI.ANO    ON    TIIK    HAITI, K   OF    ABOUKIR. 

"  Land  of  all  marvels  in  all  ages  past, 

Egypt  !    I  hail  thee  from  a  far-off  shore  ; 
I  hail  thee,  doom'd  to  rise  again  at  last, 

And  flourish,  as  in  early  youth,  once  more.  20 

"  How  long  hast  thou  lain  desolate!  how  long 

The  voice  of  gladness  in  thy  halls  hath  ceas'd! 
Mute,  e'en  as  Memnon's  lyre,  the  poet's  song, 
And  half-suppress'd  the  chant  of  cloister'd  priest. 

"  Even  he,  loquacious  as  a  vernal  bird,  25 

Love,  in  thy  plains  and  in  thy  groves  is  dumb  ; 
Nor  on  thy  thousand  Nile -fed  streams  is  heard 
The  reed  that  whispers  happier  days  to  come. 

"  O'er  cities  shadowing  some  dread  name  divine 

Palace  and  fane  return  the  hyena's  cry,  30 

And  hooficss  camels  in  long  single  line 

Stalk  slow,  with  foreheads  level  to  the  sky. 


GENERAL  KLEBER.  129 

"  No  errant  outcast  of  a  lawless  isle, 

Mocker  of  heaven  and  earth,  with  vows  and  prayers, 
Comes  thy  confiding  offspring  to  beguile, 
And  rivet  to  his  wrist  the  chain  he  wears. 

5          "  Britain  speaks  now  :  her  thunder  thou  hast  heard: 

Conqueror  in  every  land,  in  every  sea  ; 
Valour  and  Truth  proclaim  the  almighty  word, 
And,  all  thou  ever  hast  been,  thou  shalt  be." 

"  Defender  and  passionate  lover  of  thy  country!  " 

iccried  Kleber,  "thou  art  less  unfortunate  than  thy 
auguries.  Enthusiastic  Englishman!  to  which  of 
your  conquests  have  ever  been  imparted  the  benefits 
of  your  laws?  Your  governors  have  not  even  com- 
municated their  language  to  their  vassals.  Nelson 

15 and  Sidney  are  illustrious  names:  the  vilest  have 
often  been  preferred  to  them,  and  severely  have 
they  been  punished  for  the  importunity  of  their 
valour.  We  Frenchmen  have  undergone  much:  but 
throughout  the  whole  territory  of  France,  through- 

20 out  the  range  of  all  her  new  dominions,  not  a  single 
man  of  abilities  has  been  neglected.  Remember 
this,  ye  who  triumph  in  our  excesses.  Ye  who 
dread  our  example,  speak  plainly:  is  not  this  among 
the  examples  ye  are  the  least  inclined  to  follow? 

25      "  Call  my  staff  and  a  file  of  soldiers. 

"  Gentlemen,  he  who  lies  under  the  pyramid 
seems  to  have  possessed  a  vacant  mind  and  full 
heart,  qualities  unfit  for  a  spy:  indeed  he  was  not 
one.  He  was  the  friend  and  companion  of  that 

30  Sidney  Smith  who  did  all  the  mischief  at  Toulon, 
when  Elliot  fled  from  the  city;  and  who  lately,  you 
must  well  remember,  broke  some  of  our  pipes  before 


13°  GENERAL   KLEBER. 

Acre — a  ceremony  which  gave  us  to  understand, 
without  the  formalities  of  diplomacy,  that  the  Grand 
Signer  declined  the  honour  of  our  company  to  take 
our  coffee  with  him  at  Constantinople." 

Then  turning  to  the  file  of  soldiers,  "A  body  lies   5 
under  the  Great  Pyramid:  go,  bury  it  six  feet  deep. 
If  there  is  any  man  among  you  capable  of  writing  a 
good  epitaph,  and   such  as   the   brave   owe  to  the 
brave,  he  shall  have  my  authority  to  carve  it  upon 
the  Great  Pyramid;  and  his  name  may  be  brought  10 
back  to  me." 

"  Allow  me  the  honour,"  said  a  lieutenant;   "  I  fly 
to  obey." 

"  Perhaps,"  replied  the  commander-in-chief,  "  it 
may  not  be  amiss  to  know  the  character,  the  adven- 15 
tures,  or  at  least  the  name — 

"  No  matter,  no  matter,  my  general." 

"Take  them,  however,"   said   Kleber,   holding  a 
copy,  "and  try  your  wits." 

"General,"    said    Mcnou,  smiling,    "you    never  20 
gave   a    command    more    certain    to    be    executed. 
What  a  blockhead  was  that  king,  whoever  he  was, 
who  built  so  enormous  a  monument  for  a  wandering 
Knglishman!  " 


3Blucber  anO  San&t. 


Blucher.  Pardon  an  intrusion  ere  sunrise.  Do 
not  move  for  me. 

Sandt.   Sir,  I  was  not  seated,  nor  inclined  to  be. 

Sitting   is  the  posture  in  which  a  prisoner  has  a 

5  deeper    sense    of    solitude   and    helplessness.     In 

walking  there  is  the  semblance  of  being  free;  and 

in  standing  there  is  a  preparation  for  walking.     But 

perhaps  these  are  only  the  vague  ideas  of  my  situ- 

ation.     Many   things   are    true    which    we   do    not 

10  believe  to  be  true;  but  more  are  false  which  we  do 

not  suspect  of  falsehood. 

Blucher.  So  early  a  visit,  or  indeed  any,  may  be 
unwelcome  on  such  a  day. 

Sandt.   To  one  unprepared  it  might  be.     But  we 

15  are   scarcely    so  early  as  you  think  we  are.     The 

walls  indeed  do  not  yet  bear  upon  them  the  pleasant 

pink  hue  of  sunrise;  a  rich  decoration  which,  I  am 

sorry    to    think    it,    some  other    cells   are    perhaps 

deprived    of;  but   within    a    few    minutes    you  will 

20  discover  the  only  thing  in  the  apartment  not  yet 

visible.     Presently  you  shall  see  the  spider's  web, 

in  the  angle  there,  whiten  and  wave  about.     Look! 

I   told   you   so.     Does  the   sun's  ray  shake    it   by 

striking  it?     Or  does  the  poor  laborious  weaver  of 

25  the  tissue,  by  quitting  it  abruptly? 

BJ.ucher.   I  never  thought  about  the  matter. 


I32  BLUCHER  AXD   SANDT. 

Sandt.  You  have  not  had  much  leisure  then? 
You  never  have  been  idle  against  your  will? 

Blucher.  No,  indeed;  not  until  lately.  But  why 
have  they  walled  up  your  chimney?  Could  not 
they  have  contracted  it,  if  they  feared  your  escape?  5 

Sandt.  Ah!  how  we  puzzle  one  another  with  our 
questions!  Do  not  inquire  why  they  have  done  it: 
thank  them  rather,  if  you  are  my  friend,  thank 
them  with  me  for  sparing  to  take  down  the  mantel- 
piece. 1C 

Blucher.   A  narrow  slip  of  lime-washed  stone. 

Sandt.  Wide  enough  for  a  cider-glass  with  a 
flower  in  it.  I  should  be  unwilling  to  have  a  bird 
so  near  me  just  at  present;  but  a  flower — I  love  to 
have  a  flower.  It  leads  me  back,  with  its  soft,  cool  15 
touch  into  the  fields  and  into  the  garden;  it  was 
nurtured  by  the  heavens;  it  has  looked  at  them  in 
its  joyousness;  and  it  leaves  all  for  me!  Thou  hast 
been  out  upon  the  dew,  my  little  one!  thou  hast 
seen  everything  as  I  saw  it  last;  thou  comest  to  20 
show  me  the  colours  of  the  dawn,  the  carelessness 
of  boyhood,  the  quiet  veins  and  balmy  breath  of 
innocence,  the  brief  seclusion  and  the  sound  sleep 
of  Sandt. 

Are  you  going?  25 

JUucher.    No. 

Sandt.  You  turned  away  from  me.  I  grew 
tedious. 

Jiluehtr.  I  have  not  yet  given  you  time,  nor  you 
me.  What  are  you  looking  at  on  the  naked  wall?  30 

SanJt.  1  was  looking  at  the  reflection  of  the 
window-bars  against  it. 


BLUCHER  AND   SANDT.  133 

Blucher.   And  yet  you  appeared  to  look  at  them 
with  pleasure  and  satisfaction. 

Sandt.  Did    I?     Perhaps     I    did.     Their    milder 
apparitions  have   been  my   daily   visitors.     Unob- 
5  trusive,  calm,  consolatory,  they  teach  me  by  their 
transiency  and  evanescence    that  imprisonment   is 
merely  a  shadow,  as  they  are;  that  life  is  equally 
so;  that  the  one  cannot  long  detain  us;  that  we 
cannot  long  detain  the  other;  and  that  our  enlarge- 
10  ment  and  departure  are  appointed  from  above.     See 
how  indistinct  and  how  wide-open  they  are  become 
already.     I    fell  into   talking  about   myself;    and, 
what  is  worse,  I  now  begin  to  moralise.     An  invi- 
tation to  sit  down  with  one  condemned  might  be 
15  offensive. 

Blucher.  Assure  me  that  I  do  not  offend,  and  let 
me  assure  you  I  will  not  be  offended.     Suspect  me, 
doubt  me,  interrogate  me,  and,  if  you  find  reason 
for  it,  reproach  me. 
20      Sandt.   I  have  no  right  nor  will. 

Blucher.  Then  let  us  sit  together  at  the  foot  of 

the  pallet.     I  would  not  assume  the  post  of  honour, 

to  which  I  have  no  right,  by  taking  the  three-legged 

stool.     And  now  we  are  side  by  side,  may  I  look  at 

25  you? 

Sandt.   As  you  will. 

Blucher.   I  have  seen  many  brave  men ;  I  cannot 
see  too  many. 

Sandt.  The  brave  are  confined  in  the  fortresses — 
30111    places   less    healthy    than  this.     Somebody  has 
misled  you. 

Blucher.   Confined    in    the    fortresses — in    places 


134  B  LUC  HER  AND   SAXDT. 

less  healthy  than  prisons!  the  landwehr!  the  re- 
storers—  Have  you  slept  well?  I  hope  you  have; 
I  do  think  you  have;  you  look  composed. 

Sandt.   Many  thanks!     I  have  indeed. 

Blucher.   Soundly  as  usual?  5 

Sandt.  My  sleep  was  like  spring;  if  inconstant 
and  fitful,  yet  kindly  and  refreshing;  such  as 
becomes  the  forerunner  of  a  season  more  settled 
and  more  permanent.  It  has  invigorated  me  for 
the  journey  I  am  to  take;  I  wait  in  readiness.  10 

Blucher.   Blessings  upon  you!  blessings  and  glory! 

Sandt.  Leave  me  blessings;  glory  lies  within 
them:  where  they  are  not,  she  is  not. 

Blucher.   If  I  tell  you  that  I  am  one  of  the  same 
society  with  yourself,  one  of  the  same  heart  in  its  15 
kind,  though  smaller  and  harder,   you   may  doubt 
me:  you  may  imagine  me  some  privy  councillor  in 
his  gentleness  come  to  untwine  and  wheedle  your 
secrets  out  of  you;    or  some  literator,   in  his  zeal 
for  truth,  in  his  affection  for  science,  in  his  spirit  20 
of  confraternity,  come  to  catch  your  words  and  oil 
his  salad  with  them. 

Sandt.    If  you  are  that  (but  surely  you  cannot  be) 
and  poor  also,  I  will  answer  you  enough  to  produce 
you,   in  this   moment  of   public   curiosity,    a   small  25 
pittance  for  your  family. 

Blucher.    You  see  1  am  old,  and  wear  an  old  coat. 

Sandt.    (Jo  on.      I    have   given    my    promise,   and 
would  yet  give  it,  had   I  not.      We   have  no  time  to 
spare.      Let  me  direct  you  by  the  straightest  road  30 
to  your  business.      1  had  no  accomplice,  no  instiga- 
tor, no  adviser  in  letting  fall   the  acid  dr<ip  which 


BLUC11ER  AMD  SANDT.  135 

removed  one  stain  from  Germany.  Here  is  enough 
for  your  three  volumes,  three  hundred  pages  each. 
Yes,  I  see  the  holes;  and  you  may  put  the  hand 
into  that  rent. 

5      Blucher.   It  is  a  coat  which  many  a  ball  has  hissed 
at,  and  many  a  courtier  whom  I  cared  as  little  for. 

Sandt.  May  I  serve  one  man  more  ere  I  depart! 
and  may  he  have  been,  or  live  to  be,  an  honest  one! 

Blucher.  Is  Blucher? 

10  Sandt.  The  Kosciusko  of  Germany,  the  Washing- 
ton of  Europe. 

Blucher.   In  wishes  only. 

Sandt.  What  news  about  him?  Be  explicit  and 
expeditious. 

15  Blucher.  He  passes  yet  one  hour  with  thee,  O 
saint  without  arrogance!  O  patriot  without  im- 
posture! 

Sandt.  Where  am  I? 

Blucher.   Not  yet  in  heaven,  although  thy  looks 
20  express  it. 

Sandt.  But,  what  is  next  to  heaven,  on  earth  as 
I  yearned  to  see  it,  where  the  desire  of  good  and 
the  thrusting  aside  of  evil  find  their  full  reward. 

Blucher.   Reward!     What!  death? 
25      Sandt.   After  the  embrace  of  Blucher,  are  myriads 
of  wrong  thoughts  worth  a  single  just,  or  myriads 
of  cruel  worth  a  single   kind,   one?     If  men   were 
what  we  could  wish  them  to  be,  we  need  not  die  for 
them:  if  they  loved  us,  we  might  be  too  contented, 
30 and   less   disposed   to  set  them  right.      I   dare  not 
attempt  to  penetrate  or  to  question  what  is  inscrut- 
able in  the  designs  of  Providence;  but  without  evil, 


I36  BLUCIIER  A\"D   SAKDT. 

and  much  of  it,  and  spread  widely,  the  highest  part 
of  God's  creation  would  sink  lower,  by  contracting 
its  capacity  of  reflection,  and  abating  its  intensity 
of  exertion. 

O  general,  may  it  be  unsafe  for  any  one  to  pour  5 
bad  counsel  into  the  ear  of  princes!  Let  them 
slumber,  heavy  and  satiated,  in  their  sunny 
orchards,  without  the  instillation  of  that  fatal 
poison!  May  I  not  perish,  may  you  not  live,  in 
vain!  10 


Selected  passages. 

NATURE. 

Demosthenes.   Leave  to  us  the  country  and  fresh 
air,  and,   what  itself  is  the  least  tranquil  thing  in 
Nature,  but  is  the  most  potent  tranquilliser  of  an 
5  excited  soul,  the  sea. 


Landor.  Ah,  Don  Pepino!  old  trees  in  their  living 
state  are  the  only  things  that  money  cannot  com- 
mand. Rivers  leave  their  beds,  run  into  cities, 
and  traverse  mountains  for  it;  obelisks  and  arches, 
10  palaces  and  temples,  amphitheatres  and  pyramids, 
rise  up  like  exhalations  at  its  bidding;  even  the 
free  spirit  of  Man,  the  only  thing  great  on  earth, 
crouches  and  cowers  in  its  presence.  It  passes 
away  and  vanishes  before  venerable  trees. 

15  POETRY. 

V     Landor.  In  poetry,  there  is  a  greater  difference 

between  the  good  and  the  excellent  than  there  is 

between  the    bad  and    the  good.     Poetry   has    no 
golden  mean. 


20  Landor.  There  are  some  who  in  a  few  years  can 
learn  all  the  harmony  of  Milton;  there  are  others 
who  must  go  into  another  state  of  existence  for  this 
felicity. 


138  SELECTED   PASSAGES. 

Nonnanbv.  Critics  talk  most  about  the  visible  in 
sublimity — the  Jupiter,  the  Neptune.  Magnitude 
and  power  are  sublime  but  in  the  second  degree, 
managed  as  they  may  be.  Where  the  heart  is  not 
shaken,  the  gods  thunder  and  stride  in  vain.  True  5 
sublimity  is  the  perfection  of  the  pathetic,  which 
has  other  sources'  than  pity;  generosity,  for  in- 
stance, ami  self-devotion.  When  the  generous  and 
self-devoted  man  sutlers,  there  comes  pity:  the 
basis  of  the  sublime  is  then  above  the  water,  and  10 
the  poet,  with  or  without  the  gods,  can  elevate  it 
above  the  skies.  Terror  is  but  the  relic  of  a  child- 
ish feeling:  pity  is  not  given  to  children. 

FAME. 

In  another  house,  after  several  glasses  were  15 
drunk  with  great  cheerfulness,  the  whole  company 
rose  up  to  a  mysterious  toast,  in  silence  and  sad- 
ness. He  sipped  the  wine  in  doubt,  and  found  that 
it  was  the  same  as  he  had  been  drinking  from  the 
first,  and  excellent  ISordeaux.  He  could  not  con- 20 
ceive  what  had  saddened  at  a  single  moment  so 
many  vacant  and  rosy  faces.  The  next  morning  he 
heard  that  two  of  them  had  been  shot  by  their 
antagonists  in  a  quarrel  arising  from  this  toast,— 
the  "  Immortal  memory "  of  some  one  they  had  25 
never  seen  or  thought  about.  He  imagined  that 
silence  and  sorrow  would  have  come  better  after; 
that  wine  should  make  men  joyous,  and  duels 
serious.  On  reflection  he  feared  to  be  "com- 
promised," and  suspected  that  the  "immortal  30 


SELECTED  PASSAGES.  139 

memory"  so  religiously  observed,  and  with  such 
awe  and  taciturnity,  might  be  the  memory  of  Bon- 
aparte. To  relieve  his  suspicions,  he  joked  about 
it  with  two  of  the  youngest,  whom  he  found  at 
5  billiards  the  succeeding  day.  They  laughed  aloud 
at  his  mistake.  "  It  was  King  William,"  said  one. 
"  It  was  William  Pitt,"  said  the  other.  "  It  was  no 
more  Pitt  than  it  was  my  pointer,"  rejoined  the 
first.  In  fact  the  "  immortal  memory  "  in  eighteen 
10  hours  had  as  much  obscurity  and  as  many  thorns 
about  it  as  the  tomb  of  Archimedes. — From  Duke 
de  Richelieu,  Sir  Firebrace  Cotes,  Lady  Glcngrin,  and 
Mr.  Normanby. 

Barrow.  Very  wise  men,  and  very  wary  and  in- 

isquisitive,  walk  over  the  earth,  and  are  ignorant  not 
only  what  minerals  lie  beneath,  but  what  herbs  and 
foliage  they  are  treading.  Some  time  afterward, 
and  probably  some  distant  time,  a  specimen  of  ore 
is  extracted  and  exhibited;  then  another;  lastly  the 

20 bearing  and  diameter  of  the  vein  are  observed  and 
measured.  Thus  it  is  with  writers  who  are  to  have 
a  currency  through  ages.  In  the  beginning  they 
are  confounded  with  most  others;  soon  they  fall 
into  some  secondary  class;  next,  into  one  rather 

25  less  obscure  and  humble;  by  degrees  they  are 
liberated  from  the  dross  and  lumber  that  hamper 
them;  and,  being  once  above  the  heads  of  contem- 
poraries, rise  slowly  and  waveringly,  then  regularly 
and  erectly,  then  rapidly  and  majestically,  till  the 

30  vision  strains  and  aches  as  it  pursues  them  in  their 
ethereal  elevation, 


14°  SELECTED  PASSAGES. 

Leontion.  The  voice  comes  deepest  from  the 
sepulchre,  and  a  great  name  hath  its  root  in  the 
dead  body. 

Barrow.   My  dear  Newton!  the  best  thing  is  to 
stand  above  the  world;  the  next  is  to  stand   apart   5 
from  it  on  any  side. 

SOCIETY. 

Penn.  Where  the  lawyers  flourish,  there  is  a 
certain  sign  that  the  laws  do  not. 


Barrow.  There  are  popes  in  all    creeds,   in    all  10 
countries,  in  all  ages. 


Odysseus.  Believe   me,    that   country   will  become 
the  most  powerful  which   does  the   most  extensive 
good.      Nations   live  and   remember,   when   princes 
have  fallen  asleep  by  the   side  of  their  fathers,  and  15 
dynasties  have   passed   away.      No    princely   house 
was  ever  grateful   long  together;  a   people   has    a 
capacious  heart,  a   full  one,   a  sound   one,    and  one 
that  may  beat  for  ages.      Oh!  who  would   empoison 
and  paralyse,  who  would  contract  and  harden,  who  20 
would  estrange  and  alienate  it? 


Anaxagoras.  In  most  cities,  after  a  time,  there 
are  enough  of  bad  citizens  to  subvert  good  laws. 
Immoral  life  in  one  leader  of  the  people  is  more 
pernicious  than  a  whole  street  full  of  impurities  in  25 


SELECTED  PASSAGES.  141 

the  lower  quarters  of  the  community,  seeing  that 
streams,  foul  or  fair,  cannot  flow  upward. 

TRUTH  AND  MORALITY. 

Peterborough.  Penn,  I  was  once  a  great  admirer 
5  of  Rochefoucauld,  and  fancied  his  Maxims  were 
oracles.  It  happened  that,  quoting  them  one  day 
at  dinner,  my  adversary  told  me  I  had  reversed  the 
sentiment;  I  found  I  had.  Upon  this,  I  began  to 
reverse,  for  curiosity's  sake,  almost  every  third 

10 sentence  of  my  shrewd  and  smart  philosopher;  and 
discovered  that,  like  superfine  cloth,  they  look  as 
comely  the  wrong  side  outward  as  the  right,  wher- 
ever I  could  give  as  easy  and  quick  a  turn  as  that 
of  the  original.  This  persuaded  me  that  we  receive 

15  for  the  wisest  things  the  gracefullest  and  the 
boldest,  and  that  what  are  called  speculative  truths 
are  in  general  not  only  unimportant,  but  no  truths 
at  all. 


King  of  Ava.   Lovest  thou   not  truth,    O  Flang- 

20  Sarabang-Quang? 

Flang.  Steel-  piercing- questioner- of -prostrate- 
souls!  I  am  aged.  When  I  was  a  youth  I  loved 
that  thing  and  some  others,  and  found  they  did  me 
little  good.  Truth,  both  in  seasons  of  quiet  and 

25  of  disturbance,  raiseth  men's  anger.  One  speaks 
truth  to  another,  and  both  grow  hot;  even  the 
silent,  whose  lungs  have  not  laboured.  The  rajah 
or  king  heareth  of  it,  and  he  groweth  hotter  still. 
They  two  boil  on  two  sides,  he  in  the  centre;  but 


I42  SELECTED   PASSAGES. 

all  boil  and  foam  and  bubble,  and  fume  away  the 
good  that  is  in  them.  Now,  though  I  have  heard 
lies  these  sixty-five  years,  1  have  always  found 
them  productive  of  complacency.  Some  of  them 
were  malignant;  yet  the  malignancy  was  for  the  5 
absent;  and,  supposing  he  heard  of  it  afterward, 
only  one  could  be  annoyed  where  fifty  were  grati- 
fied. If  there  is  a  man  in  the  Celestial  Empire  who 
will  lay  his  hand  upon  his  breast,  and  declare  in  the 
presence  of  our  gods  that  he  hath  derived  more  10 
pleasure  from  truth  than  from  lies,  then  let  Rao- 
Gong  Fao  be  thrown  on  his  belly,  and  let  his  back 
be  channelled  for  a  bamboo-bed. 


Cromwell.   Men,   like  nails,   lose  their   usefulness 
when  they  lose  their  direction  and  begin  to  bend.       15 


Dante.  Greatness  is  to  goodness  what  gravel  is  to 
porphyry;  the  one  is  a  movable  accumulation, 
swept  along  the  surface  of  the  earth;  the  other 
stands  fixed  and  solid  and  alone,  above  the  violence 
of  war  and  of  the  tempest,  above  all  that  is  residu-  20 
ous  of  a  wasted  world.  Little  men  build  up  great 
ones;  but  the  snow  colossus  soon  melts.  The 
good  stand  under  the  eye  of  God;  and  therefore 
stand. 


Jeanne  Dare.   One  hour  of   self-denial,   one    hour  25 
of  stern   exertion  against  the  assaults  of  passion, 
outvalues  a  life  of  prayer. 


SELECTED  PASSAGES.  143 

THE    AFFECTIONS. 

Leontion.  Never  let  us  think  that  the  time  can 
come  when  we  shall  lose  our  friends.  Glory,  litera- 
ture, philosophy  have  this  advantage  over  friend- 
5  ship:  remove  one  object  from  them,  and  others  fill 
the  void;  remove  one  from  friendship,  one  only,  and 
not  the  earth,  nor  the  universality  of  worlds,  no, 
nor  the  intellect  that  soars  above  and  comprehends 
them,  can  replace  it! 


10  Princess  Mary.  Malice!  The  baneful  word  hath 
shot  up  from  hell  in  many  places,  but  never  be- 
tween child  and  parent.  In  the  space  of  that  one 
span,  on  that  single  sod  from  Paradise,  the  serpent 
never  trailed.  Husband  and  wife  were  severed  by 

15  him,  then  again  clashed  together;  brother  slew 
brother;  but  parent  and  child  stand  where  their 
Creator  first  placed  them,  and  drink  at  the  only 
source  of  pure,  untroubled  love. 

Filippo  Lippi.   He  inquired  of  me  whether  I  often 
20  thought  of   those  I  loved  in  Italy,  and  whether  I 
could  bring  them  before  my  eyes  at  will.     To  re- 
move all  suspicion  from  him,  I  declared   I  always 
could,  and  that  one  beautiful  object  occupied  all  the 
cells  of  my  brain  by  night   and    day.     He    paused 
25 and  pondered,  and  then  said,  "Thou  dost  not  love 
deeply."     I  thought  I  had    given    the   true    signs. 
"No,  Lippi!  we  who  love  ardently,  we,  with  all  our 
wishes,  all  the  efforts  of  our  souls,  cannot  bring  be- 


144  SELECTED   PASSAGES. 

fore  us  the  features  which,  while  they  were  present, 
we  thought  it  impossible  we  ever  could  forget. 
Alas!  when  we  most  love  the  absent,  when  we  most 
desire  to  see  her,  we  try  in  vain  to  bring  her  image 
back  to  us.  The  troubled  heart  shakes  and  con- 
founds it,  even  as  ruffled  waters  do  with  shadows. 
Hateful  things  are  more  hateful  when  they  haunt 
our  sleep:  the  lovely  flee  away,  or  are  changed  into 
less  lovely." 


Cleon<:.   O  Aspasia!   it    is   hard    to  love,    and    not  10 
to  be  loved  again.      I   felt  it  early;    I  still  feel  it. 
There  is  a  barb  beyond  the   reach  of  dittany;  but 
years,  as  they  roll  by  us,  benumb  in  some  degree 
our  sense  of  suffering.     Season  comes  after  season, 
and  covers  as  it  were  with  soil    and    herbage    the  15 
flints  that  have  cut  us  so  cruelly  in  our  course. 


Mtssala.  From  the  mysteries  of  religion  the  veil 
is  seldom  to  be  drawn,  from  the  mysteries  of  love 
never.  For  this  offence,  the  gods  take  away  from 
us  our  freshness  of  heart  and  our  susceptibility  of  20 
pure  delight.  The  well  loses  the  spring  that  fed 
it,  and  what  is  exposed  in  the  shallow  basin  soon 
evaporates. 

SORROW,   OLD  AGE,   AND  DEATH. 

Epicurus.    Pleasures  are  soon  absorbed;  they  soon  25 
evaporate  in  the  heat  of  youth,  and  leave  no  traces 
behind  them;  but  sorrows  lay  waste  what  they  over- 


SELECTED  PASSAGES.  MS 

flow,  and  we  have  neither  time  nor  art  to  remove 
the  obstruction  and  counteract  the  sterility. 


Lucian.  The  farther  we  descend  into  the  vale  of 

years,  the  fewer  illusions  accompany  us:  we  have 

5  little    inclination,    little    time    for    jocularity    and 

laughter.     Light  things  are  easily  detached  from  us, 

and  we  shake  off   heavier  as  we   can.     Instead  of 

levity,  we  are  liable  to  moroseness:  for  always  near 

the  grave  there  are  more  briars  than  flowers,  unless 

10  we  plant  them  ourselves,  or  our  friends  supply  them. 


Jeanne  Dare.  Lady,  I  am  grieved  at  your  sorrow, 
although  it  will  hereafter  be  a  source  of  joy  unto 
you.  The  purest  water  runs  from  the  hardest  rock. 
Neither  worth  nor  wisdom  comes  without  an  effort; 
15  and  patience  and  piety  and  salutary  knowledge 
spring  up  and  ripen  from  under  the  harrow  of  afflic- 
tion. Before  there  is  wine  or  there  is  oil,  the  grape 
must  be  trodden  and  the  olive  must  be  pressed. 


Bossuet.  You  think  it  possible  that  I,  aged  as    I 
20  am,  may  preach  a  sermon  on  your  funeral.     Alas,  it 
/    is  so!  such  things  have  been.     There  is,  however, 
no  funeral  so  sad  to  follow  as  the  funeral  of  our  own 
youth,  which  we  have  been  pampering  with  fond  de- 
sires, ambitious  hopes,  and  all  the    bright  berries 
25  that  hang  in  poisonous  clusters  over  the  path  of 
life. 


146  SELECTED  PASSAGES. 

Ternissa.   Oh,  what  a  thing  is  age! 

Leontion.   Death   without  death's  quiet.     But   we 
will  converse  upon  it  when  we  know  it  better. 

Epicurus.  My  beloved!  we  will  converse  upon  it 
at  the  present  hour,  while  the  harshness  of  its  fea-  5 
tures  is  indiscernible  not  only  to  you,  but  even  to  me, 
who  am  much  nearer  to  it.  Disagreeable  things, 
like  disagreeable  men,  are  never  to  be  spoken  of 
when  they  are  present.  Do  we  think,  as  we  may  do 
in  such  a  morning  as  this,  that  the  air  awakens  the  10 
leaves  around  us  only  to  fade  and  perish?  Do  we, 
what  is  certain,  think  that  every  note  of  music  we 
ever  heard,  every  voice  that  ever  breathed  into  our 
bosoms  and  played  upon  its  instrument,  the  heart, 
only  wafted  us  on  a  little  nearer  to  the  tomb?  Let  15 
the  idea  not  sadden,  but  compose  us.  Let  us  yield 
to  it,  just  as  season  yields  to  season,  hour  to  hour; 
and  with  a  bright  serenity,  such  as  Evening  is  in- 
vested with  by  the  departing  Sun. 


sEsop.   Breathe,    Rhodope!   breathe   again    those  20 
painless  sighs:  they  belong  to  thy   vernal    season. 
May    thy    summer   of    life    be    calm,    thy    autumn 
calmer,  and  thy  winter  never  come.- 

Rhodop^.    I  must  die  then  earlier. 

/Esop.  Laodameia  died;  Helen  died;  Leda,  the  be- 25 
loved  of  Jupiter,  went  before.  It  is  better  to  repose 
in  the  earth  betimes  than  to  sit  up  late;  better,  than 
to  cling  pertinaciously  to  what  we  feel  crumbling 
tinder  us,  and  to  protract  an  inevitable  fall.  We 
may  enjoy  the  present  while  we  are  insensible  of  in- 30 


SELECTED  PASSAGES.  1 47 

firmity  and  decay:  but  the  present,  like  a  note  in 
music,  is  nothing  but  as  it  appertains  to  what  is  past 
and  what  is  to  come.  There  are  no  fields  of  ama- 
ranth on  this  side  of  the  grave;  there  are  no  voices, 
5  O  Rhodope,  that  are  not  soon  mute,  however  tune- 
ful; there  is  no  name,  with  whatever  emphasis  of 
passionate  love  repeated,  of  which  the  echo  is  not 
faint  at  last. 

Rhodop^.  O  /Esop!  let  me  rest  my  head  on  yours; 
10  it  throbs  and  pains  me. 

s£sop.  What  are  these  ideas  to  thee? 

Rhodope.   Sad,  sorrowful. 

^£sop.  Harrows  that  break  the  soil,  preparing  it 
for  wisdom.  Many  flowers  must  perish  ere  a  grain 
15  of  corn  be  ripened. 


NOTES. 

MSOP  AND  R HO DOPE  (1846). 

This  is  the  second  of  two  conversations  between  the  same 
characters.  All  these  conversations,  it  must  be  remembered,  are 
imaginary,  even  the  story  of  the  famine  in  the  present  one  being 
a  pure  invention  of  Landor's.  It  is  therefore  frequently  idle  to 
search  in  history  or  legend  for  scenes  and  dates.  The  assumed 
scene  of  this  conversation,  as  may  be  learned  from  its  predecessor 
and  from  at  least  one  local  touch  in  itself,  is  Egypt.  Rhoddpis 
("  Rosy-cheek  " — Landor  employs  a  musical  variant,  Rhod'opl, 
also  a  Thracian  name)  was  the  appellative  of  a  Thracian  slave 
girl  whose  real  name  was  probably  Doricha  ;  see  Herodotus,  ii. 
134.  !35  ;  Strabo,  xvii.  33.  Herodotus  says  that  she  and  yEsop 
were  fellow-slaves  of  ladmon  of  Samos,  whence  she  was  afterward 
taken  by  Xanthes  (Xanthus)  to  Egypt.  Landor  makes  them  meet 
first  in  Egypt,  though  there  is  no  evidence  that  /Esop  ever  visited 
that  country,  either  as  slave  or  as  freedman.  This  is  of  course  the 
/Esop  who  lived  about  570  B.  c.  and  to  whom  is  attributed,  on 
very  uncertain  grounds,  a  body  of  familiar  Greek  fables.  The 
relative  ages  of  the  two  can  be  gathered  from  the  conversation, 
ami  upon  the  age  of  Khodope  might  well  turn  some  criticism  of 
dramatic  consistency.  It  is  needful  to  know  that  Landor  accepts 
both  the  tradition  of  Rhodope's  great  beauty,  which  passed  into  a 
proverb,  and  the  unwarrantable  and  unreasonable  tradition  of 
/Esop's  physical  ugliness. 

I  :  22. — For  I  have  looked  into  nothing  else  of  Lite.  Readers  of 
Landor  must  early  acquaint  themselves  with  his  implicit  style. 
This  clause  might  seem  to  mean  that  /Esup  has  been  pondering 
deeply  upon  the  possibility  of  Rhodope's  doing  wrong.  But  such 
an  interpretation  would  be  fatally  prosaic.  The  moment  we  dis- 

M9 


ISO  NOTES. 

cover  the  exact  allusion  in  "  nothing  else,"  we  discover  the  full 
significance  of  Aesop's  clelicnte  implication. 

2  :  6. — Curiosity.  In  the  first  conversation  /Esop  had  teasingly 
convicted  Rhodope  of  this  "  feminine  appurtenance." 

2  :  II. — Cover  thy  face.    See  Introduction,  p.  xxvii.     There  are 
several  other  such  disguised  indications  of  the  action. 

3  :  23. — Could  any  other?     Supply  the  noun.     Is  it  the  father's 
insensibility  or  the  daughter's  worth  that  is  uppermost  in  ^isop's 
mind  ?      And     what    is   the    reference    below    in     "  intolerable 
wretchedness"  ? 

4  :  3. — Is  it,  etc.     Note  where  the  sentence-stress  falls. 

4  :  32. — Beanfield.  Whether  Landor  is  thinking  of  the  Pytha- 
gorean bean  {Nelumbo)  and  confounding  it  with  the  Homeric 
lotos  is  of  small  consequence — /Ksop's  little  parable  is  not  hard 
to  interpret.  Indeed,  readers  who  like  to  analyse  the  sources  of 
their  pleasure  will  find  that  this  paragraph  subserves  at  least  three 
highly  artistic  ends. 

7  :  27. — Every  one  had  bought.  Does  Rhodope  state  this  as 
simple  fact  ? 

11  :  4. — Midas,  type  of  avarice  ;  Lycaon,  of  inhumanity. 

12  :  8. — Khtrsus.      I'roperly  Rhesus.     Selected  here,  because  a 
Thracian  hero. 

12:  17. — Pardon  vie.  Why  this  deprecation?  Recall  the 
origin  of  the  Trojan  war. 

12  :  24. —  The  Fates  also  have  sung.  Prophetic  of  the  event  in 
the  life  of  Rhodopis  which  is  told  by  Strabo  and  by /K Han,  and 
which  suggests  the  story  of  Cinderella.  While  she  was  bathing, 
an  eagle  caught  up  one  of  her  sandals  and  bearing  it  to  Memphis 
dropped  it  in  the  lap  of  the  king,  Psammetichus,  who  was  moved 
by  the  strange  occurrence  and  the  beauty  of  the  sandal  to  send 
out  messengers  in  search  of  the  owner.  "  They,  finding  Rhodopis 
at  Naucratis,  brought  her  to  Kgypt,  where  the  king  wedded  her  ; 
and  after  her  death  she  was  buried  under  the  pyramid  that  goes 
by  her  name." 

Trace  the  successive  impressions  left  upon  the  reader  in  regard 
to  Khodopc's  father,  and  note  the  heightening  of  dramatic  interest. 
What  turns  out  to  be  the  final  and  supreme  justification  of  his 
act? 


NOTES.  IS1 

What  story  runs  through  the  whole  conversation,  or  sometimes 
like  an  undercurrent,  beneath  it  ?  May  not  the  closing  paragraph 
be  regarded  as  the  conclusion,  or  a  revised  conclusion,  of  the 
broken  speech  of  ^Esop  toward  the  beginning  ? 

MARCELLUS  AND  HANNIBAL  (1828). 

The  characters  here  are  Marcus  Claudius  Marcellus,  five  times 
Roman  consul,  and  conqueror  of  Syracuse  ;  and  Hannibal,  the 
great  Carthaginian  general.  The  death  of  the  former  in  the 
defeat  near  Venusia — 208  B.  c. ,  second  Punic  war — is  recorded 
history.  Recorded  too  are  the  stories  of  the  ring  and  the  funeral. 
"  When  Hannibal  came  up  to  the  body,"  says  Appian  (ffannib., 
50),  "and  saw  the  wounds  all  in  the  breast,  he  praised  him  as  a 
soldier  but  accounted  him  a  bad  general  ;  and  after  securing  his 
seal-ring  he  gave  the  body  an  honourable  funeral  and  sent  the 
ashes  to  the  dead  man's  son  in  the  Roman  camp."  Compare 
Plutarch,  Marcellus,  30.  But  the  conversation  is  no  less  imaginary 
than  the  preceding,  since  it  does  not  appear  from  history  that 
Marcellus  survived  until  the  arrival  of  his  conqueror.  The  concep- 
tion, however,  is  a  happy  one,  and  the  execution  so  perfect  that 
we  rise  with  the  development  of  the  situation  to  the  level  of  the 
heroism  portrayed. 

15:  i. — No  faster.     What  does  Hannibal  mean? 

15:  II- — The  Romans,  too.  The  whole  story  of  the  Cartha- 
ginian campaign  lies  behind  this  word  too.  There  is  authentic 
history  also  behind  the  speech  that  follows. 

17  :  12. — It  pains  me.  Follow  carefully  the  motives  that  prompt 
these  speeches. 

17  :  29. —  This  ring.     Probably  suggesting  massiveness  ?     Livy 
(xxvii.  28)  tells  that  Hannibal,  by  the  use  of  a  letter  sealed  with 
this  ring,  secured  the  admission  of  six  hundred  of  his  men  into  the 
town  of  Salapia,  Apulia.      But  the  Salopians  had  been  apprised  of 
the  trick  and  ambushed  the  men. 

18  :  7. — /confess.     This  sentence  seems  to  have  no  direct  con- 
nection with  the  preceding,  which  looks  backward  while  this  looks 
forward.      Such   sudden    shifting   of   thought    is   characteristic    of 
Landor's  dramatic   style.      The   shift  in   this  case,  however,  turns 


152  NOTES. 

out  to  be  merely  a  resumption.  Tlie  conversation  had  for  a 
moment  diverged. 

2O  :  i.  —  Bubbles  of  air.  Air,  breath,  life,  and  spirit  were 
represented  in  Latin  by  a  single  woid  —  spiritus.  Piety  below 
keeps  also  its  older  meaning. 

20  :  28.—  He  u'ould  harf       Force  of  would? 

Is  Hannibal  here  represented  as  noble  and  generous,  or  only 
selfish  and  cunning  ? 

What  principle,  in  this  and  other  conversations,  seems  to  govern 
Landor  in  the  use  of  the  second  personal  pronoun,  now  in  the 
solemn  form  thou,  and  now  in  the  common 


P.  SCIPIO  >EMILIANUS,  POLYBIUS,  PAN^TIUS  (1833). 

After  a  terrible  siege  in  which  her  inhabitants  were  reduced 
from  seven  hundred  thousand  to  fifty  thousand,  in  146  B.  C.,  the 
chapter  of  history  which  the  illustrious  city  of  Carthage  had  been 
writing  for  seven  hundred  years  was  brought  to  a  sad  close.  The 
third  Punic  war  is  perhaps  the  greatest  blot  on  Roman  history. 
The  senate  decreed,  and  their  instrument,  Scipio  Africanus  the 
Younger,  could  do  no  less  than  perform.  The  city  was  besieged 
and  razed  with  Roman  rigour  and  Stoic  fortitude,  though  not,  if 
Landor  has  read  this  character  aright,  without  some  human  heart- 
ache. Cicero  raised  a  monument  to  the  memory  of  Scipio  by 
making  his  friendship  with  L.elius  the  inspiration  of  the  beautiful 
dialogue  Df  Amicitia.  Landor  has  added  a  scarcely  less  beauti- 
ful tribute  in  this  scene  which  brings  Scipio  himself  before  our 
eyes  in  tender  and  intimate  converse  with  his  dreek  friends, 
Polybius  the  historian  and  P.m.  i  tins  the  Stoic  philosopher.  Only 
the  opening  pages  are  given  here  of  a  conversation  which  runs  to 
considerable  length,  treating  discursively  of  various  things,  chiefly 
of  luxury  and  the  debt  of  Koine  to  dreece.  The  interest  centres 
in  the  vivid  presentation  of  n  complex  character,  the  product  of 
Roman  birth  and  military  training  humanised  by  (irock  philosophy 
and  culture. 

23:  14.  —  R  <iint-  be  what  Carthage  iciis.  "And  they  say  that 
Scipio  was  heard  mourning,  '/'//,•  ,/,/]•  shall  i<i>/tf  whi'n  sdi'reJ 
I  lion  u'ill  fall,  and  Priam,  and  llu-  people  of  Priam.  And  when 


NOTES.  153 

Polybius  asked  him  of  what  he  was  thinking,  he  made  answer  as 
one  in  abstraction,  Rome." — APPIAN,  Lib.  132. 

24:  32. — His  wife  none.  Asdrubal,  says  Appian  (Lib.  131), 
fled  with  his  two  boys  to  surrender  to  Scipio.  But  his  wife 
reproached  him  for  a  traitor,  slew  the  children,  and  threw  them 
and  herself  into  the  fire. 

METELLUS  AND  MARIUS  (1829). 

"  Marius  was  young  at  the  siege  of  Numantia,  and,  entering 
the  army  with  no  advantage  of  connection,  would  have  risen 
slowly  ;  but  Scipio  had  marked  his  regularity  and  good  morals, 
and  desirous  of  showing  the  value  he  placed  on  discipline,  when 
he  was  asked  who,  in  case  of  accident  to  him,  should  succeed  to 
the  chief  command,  replied,  Perhaps  this  man,  touching  the 
shoulder  of  Marius."  LANIJOR'S  note,  after  Plutarch,  Marius,  3. 

From  his  obscurity  Marius  rose  to  be  seven  times  consul,  and 
by  his  rivalry  with  Sulla  brought  on  the  civil  war  of  88  and  the 
consequent  proscription  and  slaughter  of  the  nobles.  Caius 
Ca:cilius  Metellus  was  a  comparatively  unimportant  personage. 
The  siege  and  capture,  in  132  B.  c.,  of  the  gallant  Numantians, 
hopelessly  struggling  with  eight  thousand  men  against  the  whole 
power  of  Rome,  was  another  disgraceful  stage  in  the  Roman 
career  of  conquest  at  which  Scipio  found  it  his  duty  to  assist. 
Appian  (Iber.,  95-98)  says  that  some  of  the  Numantians  preferred 
surrender  to  death  and  were  led  in  a  Roman  triumph.  The 
fundamental  conception,  therefore,  in  this  dramatic  scene,  as  well 
as  many  details,  is  Landor's  own,  and  is  a  pure  triumph  of  the 
creative  imagination  working  upon  a  few  suggestions  from  history. 

26  :  20. — /  shotild  slip  else.     The  awful  significance  of  Marius's 
words  will  not  escape  the  reader  as  it  escapes  Metellus. 

27  :  6. — Cereate.     The  rustic  home  of  Marius's  childhood,  near 
Arpmum.     A  good   example  of  how  Landor  makes  every  touch 
tell.     For  the  simile  compare  page  125,  line  14. 

31  :  i. — Auguries  are  surer.  "This  saying  of  Scipio's  [«ee 
Landor's  note  above],  we  are  told,  raised  the  hopes  of  Marius  like 
a  divine  oracle,  and  was  the  chief  thing  which  animated  him  to 
apuly  himself  to  affairs  of  state." — PLUTARCH. 


154  NOTES. 


LUCULLUS  AND  C/ESAR  (1829). 

"  It  is  difficult  to  gather  from  this  conversation  the  date  at 
which  it  is  supposed  to  take  place;  probably  it  is  not  possible  to 
do  so.  C;esar  has  come  to  visit  l.ucnllus  in  secret,  to  ask  him  for 
his  help  against  Pompey.  At  no  time  would  Civsar  have  been 
likely  to  take  such  a  step,  least  of  all  during  the  full  tide  of  his 
success  in  (laid,  when  his  alliance  with  Pompey  was  still  vigorous. 
Hut  ^he  history  is  unimportant.  For  the  splendours  of  the  villa  of 
Lucullus,  see  Plutarch's  Life  of  !.ncitllns,  which  has  furnished 
Landor  with  the  materials  for  his  picture." — G.  G.  CRUMP. 

An  allusion,  in  a  part  of  the  conversation  not  here  reprinted, 
to  the  consuls  fiabinius  and  1'iso  makes  it  clear  that  Landor  had 
in  mind  the  d:ite,  58  i(.  <:.  This  agrees  with  other  allusions, — to 
the  marriage  of  [ulia,  to  the  affair  of  Vettius,  to  Cajsar's  impend- 
ing departure  for  (j.iul.  Some  minor  matters,  however,  are  not 
quite  reconcilable.  The  season  is  "  the  dog-days,"  when  C;esar 
must  have  been  in  (J.iul,  whither  he  went  early  in  the  spring. 
Perhaps  we  are  to  imagine  him  as  having  slipped  back  into  Italy, 
where  as  imperator  he  had  no  right  to  be,  and  as  having  made  his 
way  to  Lucullus's  villa,  "  avoiding  the  cities."  Hut  Mr.  Crump  is 
right  in  pointing  out  the  improbability  of  Ca'sar's  approaching 
Lucullus  at  this  early  stage  of  the  "  first  triumvirate." 

The  villa  of  Lucullus  wa-.  near  Tuseulum,  ten  miles  southeast 
of  Rome.  Lucullus,  after  withdrawing  from  public  affairs,  —  vir- 
tually forced  out  by  the  success  of  Pompey,  his  old  rival,  and 
Caesar, — devoted  himself  to  a  life  of  philosophic  indolence  and 
luxury,  made  possible  by  the  vast  wealth  amassed  in  his  wars 
against  Mithridates,  King  of  Pontus.  He  died  about  57  if.  <'. 
Landor  supposes  him  to  have  been  slowly  poisoned. 

The  notable  features  of  the  conversation  are  the  craft  and 
diplomacy  lurking  beneath  the  veil  of  friendliness  and  hospitality, 
the  delicious  sparring  in  which  the  honours  are  all  on  one  side. 
and  the  ultimate  triumph  of  the  magnanimity  of  Lucullus,  in 
whom  it  is  impossible  not  to  see  a  man  much  after  Landor's  own 
heart. 

33  :  18. —  That  worthy.      The  probability  is  that  this  "  worthy," 


NOTES.  155 

Vettius  by  name,  was  suborned  by  one  of  Caesar's  own  party  to 
make  this  false  charge,  that  it  might  redound  to  the  injury  of 
Cicero,  Lucullus,  and  others.  Such  was  Cicero's  belief,  shared 
also,  in  Landor's  view,  by  Lucullus,  beneath  the  irony  of  whose 
next  speech  here  Cresar  palpably  winces. 

34  :  12. — Farmian  wine.  Readers  of  Horace  will  remember 
that  in  one  of  his  Odes  (i.  20)  he  hints  to  his  patron  that  he  can- 
not afford  Falernian  and  Formian  wines. 

34  :  20. — Pardons  heavier  faults.  That  the  conqueror  of 
Gaul  should  endure  calmly  the  infliction  of  such  exquisite  tor- 
ture is  almost  beyond  comprehension.  But  Landor's  characters, 
unless  they  be  kings,  are  not  to  be  expected  to  descend  to  violence. 

36:30.  —  Cherries.  "  Blessings  on  Lucullus!"  Horatius  is 
made  to  exclaim  in  another  conversation,  "  the  wisest  and  most 
provident  of  conquerors.  He  brought  from  Armenia  the  apricot 
and  cherry,  and  the  peach  from  the  confines  of  Persia." — Lake 
Larius,  now  Como. 

37  :  26. — Fcesula:.     The  Italian  Fiesole,  which  became  Landor's 
home  the  year  in  which  this  conversation  was  published. 

38  :  9. — Does   it    now    appear.      Several    late    editions    read 
"  does  not   now  appear  " — a  reading  which  will  also  bear  inter- 
pretation.    It  is  difficult  to  choose  between  them. 

38  :  32. — Contests  in  the  Senate.      Cato,  leader  of  the  aristoc- 
racy, opposed  Caesar  and  Pompey. 

39  :  5. — On   the  ceiling.     It    is  to   be    remembered    that  the 
Romans  reclined  at  banquets. 

40  :  i. —  The  subject.     In  his  youth  Caesar  had  once  been  cap- 
tured by  pirates.     He  was  ransomed,  but  laughingly  threatened 
to  crucify  them.     He  afterward  manned  some  vessels,  captured 
the  pirates,  and  carried  out  the  threat.      Landor  was  much  inter- 
ested in  pictures,  of  which  he  was  a  collector,  though  scarcely  a 
connoisseur. 

43  :  2- — Virtues.  Here  follows  Cresar's  direct  request  of  Lu- 
cullus to  unite  with  him  against  Pompey  and  Crassus.  How  the 
request  is  met  the  remainder  of  the  scene  as  here  printed  shows. 

44:  21. —  \Vill  tread  down  the  sandal.  A  low  estimate  of 
Cicero,  who  at  this  date  was  still  alive; — carrying  out  the  idea 
that  no  man  is  rightly  estimated  before  his  death. 


156  NOTES. 


TIBERIUS  AND  VIPSANIA  (1828). 

"  Vipsania,  the  daughter  of  Agrippa,  was  divorced  from  Tibe- 
rius by  Augustus  and  Livia,  in  order  that  he  might  marry  Julia 
and  hold  the  empire  by  inheritance.  He  retained  such  an  affec- 
tion for  her,  and  showed  it  so  intensely  when  he  once  met  her 
afterwards,  that  every  precaution  was  taken  lest  they  should  meet 
again." — LANUOR'S  note,  after  Suetonius,  Tiberius,  vii. 

Tiberius  Claudius  Nero,  the  second  Emperor  of  Rome,  born 
H.  c.  42,  was  the  son  of  Li  via  Drtisilla,  who  afterward  became 
the  wife  of  Augustus,  first  emperor  of  Rome.  He  was  carefully 
educated;  was  sent  by  Augustus  in  the  year  20  on  an  expedition 
into  Armenia  and  visited  the  island  of  Rhodes  on  his  return;  was 
divorced  in  II  from  Vipsania  and  married  to  Julia,  the  daughter  of 
Augustus;  spent  the  years  6  H.  c.  to  2  A.  I),  in  Rhodes;  was 
adopted  by  Augustus  4  A.  i>;  reigned  14-37  A.  I).  The  mention 
of  the  "  Little  Drusus  "  indicates  that  the  time  of  this  conversa- 
tion is  assumed  to  be  before  the  second  visit  to  Rhodes,  therefore 
between  II  and  6  H.  c.  The  following  table  of  genealogy  will  be 
of  assistance: 

Agrippa  Livia  (3)  =  (2)  Augustus 

I  I  I 

Vipsania  (i)  =  Tiberius  rr  (2)  Julia 

I 
I  >rusus 

Lander's  conception  of  Tiberius  is  scarcely  the  historical  one, 
but  in  another  conversation  (Afarchese  Pallavicini  and  Walter 
Landor)  he  has  this  defence  of  it  :  "  Tiberius,  melancholy 
at  the  loss  of  a  young  and  beautiful  wife  borne  away  from 
him  by  policy,  sank  into  that  dreadful  malady  which  blighted 
every  branch  of  the  Claudian  family;  and,  instead  of  embellishing 
the  city  with  edifices  and  sculpture,  darkened  it  with  disquietudes 
and  suspicions,  and  retired  into  a  solitude  which  his  enemies  have 
peopled  with  monsters.  Such  atrocious  lust,  incredible  even  in 
madness  itself,  was  incompatible  wiih  the  memory  <>f  his  loss  and 
with  the  tenderness  of  his  grief.'1  The  entire  conversation  is 


NOTES.  157 

tense  with  passion  and  broken  and  elliptical,  leaving  much  exer- 
cise for  the  imagination  in  supplying  the  action  of  the  speakers 
and  in  following  the  vacillating,  or  rather  oscillating,  temper  of 
Tiberius.  Mr.  Swinburne  praises  it  as  an  exhibition  of  Lander's 
"  subtle  and  sublime  and  terrible  power  to  enter  the  dark  vesti- 
bule of  distraction,  to  throw  the  whole  force  of  his  fancy,  the 
whole  fire  of  his  spirit,  into  the  '  shadowing  passion  '  (as  Shakes- 
peare calls  it)  of  gradually  imminent  insanity."  But  Mr.  Swin- 
burne is  neither  the  first  nor  the  last  person  to  discover  in  it  one 
of  the  few  supreme  triumphs  of  the  creative  imagination  working 
in  the  field  of  dramatic  art. 

51  :  32. — I  cursed  then  audibly.     "  I  cursed  them  audibly  "  is 
a  common,  but  manifestly  erroneous,  reading. 


WOLFGANG  AND  HENRY  OF  MELCTAL  (1828). 

"  Landenberg,  who  governed  the  country  for  Albert  of  Austria, 
sent  to  drive  away  a  yoke  of  oxen  from  Henry  of  Melctal.  His 
son  Arnold,  complaining  of  the  violence,  was  told  that  peasants 
might  draw  the  plough  themselves  if  they  wanted  bread,  Arnold 
struck  him  with  his  staff,  broke  two  fingers,  and  fled  to  a  friend 
at  Uri.  On  this,  the  father,  in  his  extreme  old  age,  saw  his 
cattle  driven  from  his  farm,  his  goods  confiscated,  his  house 
seized, — and  nothing  else;  for  his  eyes  were  burned  out." — 
LANDOR'S  note. 

Arnold  von  Melchthal,  of  the  Swiss  canton  of  Unterwalden, 
son  of  the  Henry  of  this  conversation,  was  one  of  three  heroic 
mountaineers  who  about  1307  conspired  to  deliver  the  Three 
Forest  Cantons  from  the  yoke  of  Albert  of  Austria.  Into  the 
probably  real  incident  has  become  woven  the  legendary  story  of 
"William  Tell,"  and  Arnold  is  a  prominent  character  in  Schil- 
ler's drama,  "  Wilhelm  Tell."  Landor  has  put  into  this  con- 
versation his  hatred  of  imperial  power  and  his  sympathy  with 
the  human  instinct  for  freedom.  The  portion  omitted  contains  a 
"  seditious  song"  which  the  young  Arnold  is  accused  of  having 
composed  and  sung. 


I58  NOTES. 


SOUTH EV   AND    LANDOR   (1846). 

The  friendship  between  Lamlor  and  Southey  began  in  1808. 
"  I  never  saw  any  one,"  Southey  wrote  of  the  first  meeting, 
"  more  unlike  myself  in  every  prominent  part  of  human  charac- 
ter, nor  any  one  who  so  cordially  and  instinctively  agreed  with  me 
on  so  many  of  the  most  important  subjects."  The  friendship  was 
broken  only  by  Southey's  death,  thirty-five  years  afterward.  It 
was  kept  up  chiefly  by  correspondence,  yet  such  a  conversation  as 
the  present  one  may  not  have  been  even  in  small  part  imaginary; 
in  fact,  this  is  represented  as  having  taken  place  near  Clifton, 
where  Southey  visited  Latulor  in  1836  or  1837.  For  the  character 
and  value  of  Landor's  literary  criticism,  see  Introduction,  page 
xlii.  The  present  criticism  is  intentionally  conducted,  according 
to  the  opening  of  the  dialogue,  "not  incidentally,  but  turning 
page  after  page";  for  which  Landor's  quaint  defence  is:  "It 
would  ill  become  us  to  treat  Milton  with  generalities.  Radishes 
and  salt  are  the  picnic  quota  of  slim  spruce  reviewers  !  Let  us 
hope  to  find  somewhat  more  solid  and  of  better  taste." 

63  :  4 — Cose  non  dette.     The  line  is  inexactly  quoted,  no  doubt 
from  memory.     See  Orlando  Furioso,  i,  2,  2. 


ANDREW  MARVEL  AND  BISHOP  PARKER  (1846). 

"  He  [Parker]  wrote  a  work  entitled,  as  Hooker's  was,  Ecclesi- 
astical Polity,  in  which  are  these  words:  '  It  is  better  to  submit  to 
the  unreasonable  impositions  of  Nero  and  Caligula  than  to  hazard 
the  dissolution  of  the  State.  .  .  Princes  may  with  less  danger  give 
liberty  to  men's  vices  and  debaucheries  than  to  their  consciences.' 
Marvel  answered  him  in  his  Rehearsal  TransfrosfJ,  in  which  he 
says  of  Milton:  '  I  well  remember  that,  being  one  day  at  his 
house,  I  there  first  met  you,  and  accidentally.  Then  it  was  that 
you  wandered  up  and  down  Moortields,  astrologising  upon  ihe 
duration  of  His  Majesty's  (Jovermnent.  You  frequented  John 
Milton  incessantly,  and  haunted  his  house  day  by  day.  What 
discourses  you  there  used  he  is  too  generous  to  remember,  but,  he 


NOTES.  *59 

never  having  in  the  least  provoked  you,  it  is  inhumanely  and  in- 
hospitably done  to  insult  thus  over  his  old  age.  I  hope  it  will  be 
a  warning  to  all  others,  as  it  is  to  me,  to  avoid,  I  will  not  say  such 
a  Judas,  but  a  man  that  creeps  into  all  companies,  to  jeer,  trepan, 
and  betray  them.'  " — LANDOR'S  note. 

Andrew  Marvel,  or  rather  Marvell,  the  poet,  found  a  friend 
and  helper  in  the  greater  poet  Milton,  and  became  Assistant  Latin 
Secretary  with  him  in  the  last  years  of  Cromwell's  Protectorate. 
He  was  a  staunch  Puritan,  continuing  after  the  Restoration 
to  be  fearlessly  outspoken  against  abuses  in  Church  and  State. 
Landor  has  introduced  him  as  interlocutor  in  four  other  conversa- 
tions, in  three  of  them  with  Milton.  Landor  admired  both  char- 
acters for  their  intrepid  patriotism  and  their  hatred  of  popery  and 
prelaty,  and  the  spectacle  here  presented  of  Marvell  so  eloquently 
defending  his  aged  and  fallen  patron  must  move  the  most  un- 
sympathetic of  readers.  As  for  Samuel  Parker,  he  was  "  one  of 
the  worst  specimens  of  the  highest  of  high  churchmen  of  the  reign 
of  Charles  II." 

The  conversation  must  be  assumed  to  have  taken  place  some 
time  after  the  Restoration  and  after  the  publication  of  Milton's 
Paradise  Lost  (1667).  Marvell's  commendatory  verses,  alluded  to 
in  the  beginning,  are  found  prefixed  only  to  the  second  edition  of 
Paradise  Lost  (1674),  so  that  if  Landor  were  particular  about  ac- 
curacy we  should  have  to  fix  the  date  in  the  very  last  year  of  Mil- 
ton's life.  Moreover,  1672  is  the  date  of  the  beginning  of  the 
controversy  between  Marvell  and  Parker.  The  entire  conversa- 
tion, less  than  one-fourth  of  which  is  here  reprinted,  is  pitched  in 
a  lofty  key.  That  Parker  was  not  made  bishop  till  after  Marvell's 
death,  that  a  conversation  in  this  strain  is  improbable,  that  full 
justice  is  not  done  to  all  sides  of  Marvell's  lively  wit,  count  for 
little  or  nothing;  the  imaginative  achievement  remains.  It  may 
well  be  doubted  whether  English  prose  of  the  nineteenth  century 
can  show  anything  to  equal,  for  exalted  dignity  and  sustained 
power,  the  utterances  that  Landor  has  put  into  Marvell's  mouth — 
the  utterances  of  a  profound  nature  profoundly  stirred,  in  which 
truth  is  irradiated  by  terrible  beauty,  and  wrath,  justified  by  the 
righteousness  of  its  cause,  lifts  satire  itself  to  the  level  of  the 
sublime. 


160  NOTES. 

73  :  2. — Power  .  .  .  glory.  Which  of  these  words  I.andor 
means  to  be  understood  in  a  derogatory  sense  may  not  be  at  once 
clear.  But  in  another  conversation  he  makes  Marvell  console 
Henry  Marten  in  his  imprisonment  because  the  privilege  of  a 
"memory,  justly  proud,"  is  still  his;  "Hast  thou  not  sat  con- 
vivlally  with  Oliver  Cromwell?  Hast  thou  not  conversed  famil- 
iarly with  the  only  man  greater  than  he,  John  Milton?  One  was 
ambitious  of  perishable  power,  the  other  of  imperishable  glory; 
both  have  attained  their  aim." 

75  :  24. — Etna.  See  Empedocles,  Classical  Dictionary;  or 
Matthew  Arnold's  poem,  Kmpedocles  on  Etna. — Grotto  del  Cane. 
In  this  "grotto  of  the  dog,"  near  Naples,  carbonic-acid  gas  col- 
lects near  the  floor  in  sufficient  quantity  to  kill  an  animal. 

80  :  I. — liri Jewell  logwood.  The  general  meaning  is  clear: 
Men  of  meaner,  though  perhaps  showier,  talent  have  been  pre- 
ferred to  Milton.  But  the  specific  allusion,  if  there  be  one,  is 
obscure.  Logwood,  used  both  in  dyeing,  and  in  medicine  as  an 
astringent,  is  prepared  for  the  trade,  probably  by  prison  labour,  in 
the  form  of  chips  and  raspings.  The  allusion,  then,  may  be  to 
the  style  of  meaner  writers.  In  another  conversation,  Southey  is 
made  to  say:  "  As  some  men  conceive  that,  if  their  name  is  en- 
graven inflothic  letters  with  several  superfluous,  it  denotes  an- 
tiquity of  family,  so  do  others  that  a  congestion  of  words  swept 
together  out  of  a  corner,  and  dry  chopped  sentences  which  turn 
the  mouth  awry  in  reading,  make  them  look  like  original 
thinkers.  Milton  is  none  of  these;  and  his  language  is  never  a 
patchwork." 

The  rhythm  and  cadence  of  Landor's  sentences  can  be  better 
studied,  perhaps,  in  this  selection  than  in  any  other.  The  flood 
of  Marvell's  eloquence  is  not  without  its  eddies,  rapids,  and  falls, 
but  in  general  the  torrent  sweeps  steadily  on,  and  every  boulder 
the  bishop  can  throw  into  it  is  swallowed  up  without  diminishing 
its  force  or  materially  deflecting  its  current. 

ESS  FA   AND  SI'KNSKR   (1834). 

Spenser  went  to  Ireland  as  secretary  to  Lord  («rey,  the  Lurd- 
Dcputy,  where  he  was  finally  given  a  grant  of  land,  the  manor 


NOTES.  i<i 

and  castle  of  Kilcolman,  near  the  Awbeg  (the  "  aldered  Mulla  " 
of  his  poems)  in  the  county  of  Cork.  Late  in  1598,  during  the 
rebellion  of  Tyrone,  fire  was  set  to  the  castle,  and  Spenser  had  to 
flee  with  his  wife  Elizabeth  and  their  little  children  to  England. 
That  a  child  perished  in  the  flames  is  regarded  now  as  pure  myth, 
resting  only  on  a  statement  ascribed  to  Ben  Jonson  by  Drummond 
of  Hawthornden.  Spenser  died  at  London  in  January,  1599, 
possibly  in  poverty,  though  Essex,  the  queen's  favourite,  just  then 
appointed  to  the  disastrous  lord-lieutenancy  of  Ireland,  may  well 
have  befriended  him. 

90  :  27. — Acorns  from  Penshurst.  Penshurst,  in  Kent,  was 
the  home  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  whose  friendship  for  Spenser,  like 
his  uncle  Leicester's  and  Sir  Walter  Raleigh's,  both  does  credit  to 
himself  and  lends  lustre  to  the  life  of  the  poet.  Sidney  was 
killed  at  the  battle  of  Zutphen,  in  the  Netherlands,  1586;  Essex 
married  his  widow  in  1590.  "  Sidney's  Oak,  a  gnarled  and 
broken  monarch,  planted  at  his  birth,"  may  still  be  seen  in  the  park 
at  Penshurst  Place. 

92  :  1 8. — None  to  save  thee  ? 

Was  there  no  star  that  could  be  sent, 
No  watcher  in  the  firmament, 
No  angel  from  the  countless  host 
That  loiters  round  the  crystal  coast, 
Could  stoop  to  heal  that  only  child? 

— EMERSON:  Threnody. 

94  :  20. — Even  like  one  not  powerful.     "  Now  for  the  first  time 
I   learn   that  any  great  power  hath  been  exerted  for  any  great 
good." — LANOOR:   Chaucer,  Boccaccio,  and  Fetrarca. 

95  :  6. — Guardian  angels.     See  the  two  beautiful  stanzas  at  the 
beginning  of  the  eighth  canto  of  the  second  book  of  the  Faerie 
Queene. 

THE    LADY    LISLE   AND   ELIZABETH  GAUNT  (1826). 

Burnet  relates   from   William   Penn,  who  was   present,  that 
Elizabeth  Gaunt  placed  the  fagots  round  her  body  with  her  own 


1 62  NOTES. 

hands.  Lady  Lisle  was  not  burned  alive,  though  sentenced  to  it; 
but  hanged  and  beheaded." — LAN  DOR'S  note. 

The  time  is  1685,  shortly  after  the  accession  of  James  II., 
when  so  many  of  the  sympathisers  with  Monmouth's  rising  were 
tried  and  executed  during  the  famous  "  Bloody  Circuit  "  of  Lord 
Jeffreys,  Chief  Justice.  Alice,  widow  of  the  regicide  John  Lisle 
(their  title  came  only  from  Cromwell),  harboured  in  her  house  John 
Hickes,  a  Nonconformist  divine,  and  another  man,  chiefly  out 
of  kindness,  as  she  had  before  befriended  cavaliers.  Elizabeth 
Gaunt  was  convicted  on  the  testimony  of  the  very  man,  one  James 
Burton,  whom  she  hid  shielded  at  the  time  of  the  Rye  Mouse 
Plot.  See  Macaulay's  History,  vol.  i.  The  two  women  could 
not  have  met,  as  they  were  executed  at  different  times  and  in  dif- 
ferent places. 

97  :  31- — Forbidden  it.  The  first  edition  adds,  "  We  must  bend 
to  the  authority  of  both;  but  first  to  the  earlier,  and  most  willingly 
to  the  better."  This  is  only  one  of  many  examples  of  Landor's 
constant  effort  for  conciseness,  and  shows  well  how  lie  sacrificed 
popularity  to  the  ideals  of  his  art.  For  it  is  clear  in  this  place 
that  lie  did  not  wish,  in  expunging  the  sentence,  to  expunge  the 
thought.  But  the  thought  is  in  the  nature  of  argument,  and  in 
dramatic  and  poetic  composition  argument  is  better  implied  than 
expressed.  Landor  prefers,  therefore,  to  take  his  chances  with 
the  reader.  And  for  the  reader  who  is  alert  and  sympathetic 
enough  to  supply  the  ellipsis,  the  gain  is  very  great,  but  it  is 
doubtful  whether  many  would  supply  it  without  the  knowledge  of 
what  was  originally  written. 


THE  EMPRESS  CATHARINE  AND  PRINCESS 
DASHKOF  (1829). 

Catharine  was  not  present  at  the  murder  of  her  husband,  if  he 
was  murdered;  "nor  is  it  easy  to  believe  that  Clytemnestra  was 
at  the  murder  of  hers,"  wrote  Landor;  "our  business  is  charac- 
ter." Even  this  business,  it  is  well  to  remember,  involves  much 
imagination  and  employs  great  license;  few  will  believe  that  Lan- 
dor has  not  overdrawn  his  character  of  Catharine.  Peter  III. 


NOTES.  163 

died  at  Ropsha,  fifteen  miles  from  Peterhof,  in  1762.  It  is  prob- 
able that  he  was  strangled  by  one  of  the  brothers  Orloff,  favour- 
ites of  Catharine,  and  that  she  abetted  the  design,  which  placed 
her  upon  the  throne.  Ivan  the  Sixth,  a  weakling  who  had 
reigned  a  short  time  in  his  infancy,  some  twenty  years  before, 
was  now  kept  imprisoned,  and  after  two  years  slain,  ostensibly 
to  prevent  his  deliverance  by  one  Mirovitch,  lieutenant  of  the 
guards.  Mirovitch's  life  was  also  forfeited.  See  Rambaud, 
Hist,  of  Russia,  vol.  ii.  The  Princess  Dashkof  left  memoirs  of 
the  time.  Voltaire  celebrated  Catharine  as  the  Semiramis  of  the 
North.  A  good  companion-piece  to  this  conversation  is  Peter 
the  Great  and  Alexis,  in  which,  however,  Landor's  portraiture  of 
Peter  the  Great  becomes  almost  travesty. 

IO2  :  14.—  A  whale.  The  vast  extent  of  the  Russian  empire 
and  the  conglomerate  character  of  her  people,  from  Poles  and 
Finns  to  Cossacks  and  Tartars,  had  evidently  made  a  deep  im- 
pression upon  Landor's  imagination.  Elsewhere  he  likens  her  to 
"  a  great  lobster  or  crab,  strong  both  in  the  body  and  claws;  but 
between  the  body  and  claws  there  is  a  part  easy  to  be  severed  and 
broken."  Again,  "  Her  empire  will  split  and  splinter  into  the  in- 
finitesimals of  which  its  vast  shapeless  body  is  composed.  The 
south  breathes  against  it,  and  it  dissolves." 

105  :  24. — Pantaloons  and  facings.    "  The  reforms  that  he  intro- 
duced into  the  dress  and  drill,  so  as  to  assimilate  them  to  those  of 
Prussia,  irritated  the  army." — RAMBAUD. 

106  :  22. — Frederick's.     Voltaire  went  to  live  in  Prussia  at  the 
request  of  Frederick  the  Great,  but  after  several  years  they  parted 
enemies.     Voltaire's  poem,  La  Pucelle,  mentioned  in   the  next 
line,  is  a  coarse,  burlesque  performance. 

108  :  17. — Men  in  general.  Compare  the  following  sentiment, 
from  the  dialogue  between  Louis  Bonaparte  and  Count  Mole  : 
"  Louis  Bonaparte.  But  honour  is  left  at  the  bottom  of  the 
heart.  Count  Mole.  If  not  there,  yet  under  it,  on  the  same 
side.  The  scabbard  holds  it." 

108  :  32. — Paphos  or  Tobolsk.  That  is,  they  must  choose  be- 
tween the  shrine  of  love  and  exile. 


1 64  NOTES. 

LEOFRIC  AND  GODIVA  (1829). 

This  legend  of  Coventry,  where  the  festival  of  Godiva  is  stiH 
celebrated,  belongs  to  the  middle  of  the  eleventh  century.  Leofric 
was  an  earl  of  Mercia,  whose  earldom  included  the  present 
county  of  Warwick,  Landor's  native  shire.  The  beauty  of  the 
conversation  has  been  universally  praised.  It  must  rank  among 
the  very  best  of  Landor's  short,  less  impassioned  dialogues,  as  the 
Epicurus,  Lcontion,  and  Ternissa,  his  own  especial  favourite, 
must  rank  among  the  longer  ones. 

114:22. —  Unsparingly.  First  edition  reads  "abundantly." 
Evidently  the  change  was  made  to  avoid  any  suspicion  of  euphu- 
istic  balance.  See  Introduction,  page  xlvii.  So,  a  few  lines 
below,  "sustenance"  has  replaced  the  original  word  "food," 
doubtless  to  eliminate  a  rhyme. 

VITTORIA  COLONNA  AND  MICHEL-ANGELO 
BUONARROTI   (1846). 

Vittoria  Colonna,  widow  of  the  Italian  general  Marchese  di 
Pescara,  was  through  the  last  ten  years  of  her  life  a  prominent 
figure  in  a  celebrated  circle  of  Roman  artists,  poets,  and  religious 
reformers.  She  composed  some  beautiful  sonnets  to  the  memory 
of  her  husband.  Michel-Angelo's  friendship  with  her  began 
when  he  was  about  sixty  years  of  age,  and  some  of  his  later  son- 
nets were  inspired  by  and  addressed  to  her.  A  conversation 
between  them  was  recorded  by  Francesco  D'Ollanda.  See 
Grimm's  Life  of  Michel- Angela,  chapter  xiv. 

GENERAL  KLEBER  AND  FRENCH  OFFICERS  (1824). 

Napoleon,  including  the  East  in  his  schemes  of  conquest,  won 
the  battle  of  the  Pyramids  over  the  Mamelukes  in  1798,  though 
his  fleet  was  destroyed  by  Nelson  in  the  battle  of  the  Nile.  At- 
tempting next  the  subjugation  of  Syria,  he  was  met  by  the  armies 
of  the  Turkish  Sultan,  and  at  Acre  he  was  forced  to  retreat,  partly 
through  the  gallant  action  of  Sir  Sidney  Smith,  an  English  cap- 


NOTES.  165 

tain  who  had  been  with  Hood  at  Toulon  in  1793,  and  who  now 
rushed  to  the  relief  of  the  Turks.  Returning  to  Egypt,  he  won 
a  victory  over  fifteen  thousand  Turks  at  Abukir  in  1799,  and  then 
sailed  for  France,  transferring  the  Egyptian  command  to  General 
Kleber.  Kleber  was  an  able  commander  and  a  worthy  man,  but 
lie  was  assassinated  the  next  year,  and  the  command  devolved 
upon  the  incompetent  Menou,  under  whom  the  French  armies 
speedily  met  disaster. 

"  I  have  been  told,"  wrote  Julius  Hare  in  1827,  "  that  among 
Landor's  Conversations  the  most  general  favourite  is  that  between 
General  Kleber  and  some  French  officers."  This  was  before  the 
strongest  dramatic  scenes  had  been  published.  Landor  often  in- 
troduced narrative  into  his  dialogues;  here  we  have  dialogue  set 
in  narrative.  The  effect  is  at  least  so  good  that  we  could  wish  he 
had  tried  it  more  frequently.  In  reading  this,  some  allowance 
must  be  made  for  his  hatred  of  the  French  and  of  Napoleon  in 
particular. 

BLUCHER  AND  SANDT  (1846). 

The  famous  Prussian  field-marshal,  Blilcher,  needs  no  charac- 
terisation. Karl  Ludwig  Sand,  or  Sandt,  was  a  German  student 
and  liberal  who,  inflamed  by  the  endeavours  of  the  ruling  princes 
to  suppress  all  revolutionary  sentiments,  sought  out  and  stabbed 
at  Mannheim  August  von  Kotzebue,  the  German  dramatist,  then 
in  the  secret  service  of  the  Russian  Czar.  Landor  has  constructed 
one  of  his  dialogues,  Sandt  and  Kotzebue,  with  this  assassination 
as  a  climax.  The  present  dialogue,  it  seems  clear  from  some  por- 
tions here  omitted,  is  assumed  to  have  taken  place  before  the  final 
downfall  of  Napoleon.  It  therefore  involves  an  anachronism,  for 
Sanclt's  crime,  imprisonment,  and  execution  belong  to  the  years 
1819-20.  The  diction  of  the  dialogue  is  in  one  or  two  places  not 
quite  up  to  Landor's  standard  of  purity. 

SELECTED  PASSAGES. 

These  detached  passages  have  been  included  both  for  their  own 
value  and  to  show  what  selections  of  separate  excellence  may  be 


166  NOTES. 

made  from  almost  any  of  the  Conversations,  so  often  in  their  en- 
tirety laborious  to  read.  A  few  only  have  been  admitted,  and 
these,  even  after  Mr.  Colvin's  example,  with  much  hesitation,  for 
the  common  aversion  to  extracts  is  grounded  in  reason.  Still, 
there  are  writers  of  whom  we  can  fairly  make  an  exception.  There 
are  those  whose  writings  have  been  chiefly  in  the  nature  of  incon- 
secutive thoughts,  like  Marcus  Aurelius  and  Emerson;  and  there 
are  those  whose  best  utterances  have  such  completeness,  such 
breadth  of  application,  and  such  individual  perfection  of  form 
that  their  value  is  not  seriously  impaired  by  detachment  from  the 
context — among  whom  we  can  have  no  hesitation  in  ranking 
Landor. 


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SAMUEL  THURBKR,  Girls'  High  School,  Boston.-—^.  Pan- 
coast  had  in  view  the  teacher  who  means  to  give  the  best 
possible  conspectus  of  English  poems,  rather  than  the 
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Cowley,  Bunyan,  Dryden,  Defoe,  Swift,  Addison, 
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Carlyle,  Macaulay,  Newman,  Froude,  Ruskin, 
Thackeray,  Matthew  Arnold,  Pater,  and  Stevenson. 

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selections  themselves  are  chosen  with  excellent  taste.  I 
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essays,  rather  than  mere  fragments. 

F.  B.  WHITE,  St.  Paul's  School,  Concord,  N.  //..-—It  is 
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best  summaries  of  English  Literature  that  has  ever  been 
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but  is  literature  itself. 

DK.  AI.HKRT  LEONARD,  Superintendent  of  Schools,  New 
Rih'hclle,  N.  )'..- — The  book  has  been  made  even  better 
than  it  was  before  the  revision  There  is  no  better  text- 
hook  for  High  School  work  in  English  Literature  than  this 
book,  and  I  am  sure  that  this  revised  edition  will  win  a. 
still  larger  number  of  friends. 

Pancoast's  Introduction  to 
American  Literature 

Hv  HK.NKV  S.  PAN-COAST,     xii  -\-  303  pp.      i6mo.     $1.12. 

TIIK  NATION: — Onitc  the  best  brief  manual  of  the  subject 
we  know.  .  .  .  National  traits  are  well  brought  out  with- 
out neglecting  organic  connections  with  the  mother 
country.  Forces  and  movements  are  as  well  handled  as 
personalities,  the  inlluence  of  writers  hardly  less  than 
their  individuality. 

HENRY    HOLT    AND    COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  CHICAGO 


7  001 351  178    7 


